


And the Rain Won't Make Any Difference

by CrafterOfWords, hemingay (ararelitus)



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drunk Sex, Dueling in the rain, Enemies to Lovers, Exhibitionist James, Francis drinks a lot, Gratuitous Smut, Hot Mess Francis, James has Opinions(TM), Kissing in the Rain, Lake House Setting, M/M, Modern Era, Rivals to Lovers, Somebody has a Crush, Voyeuristic Francis, Wet Cat James, lakehouse au... now with more swordfights
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:35:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 27,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23216362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrafterOfWords/pseuds/CrafterOfWords, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ararelitus/pseuds/hemingay
Summary: Esteemed author, Francis RM Crozier just wants to get away from the chaos of the big city - as well as the looming presence of his rival, James Fitzjames - and finish his latest novel. He settles into a peaceful existence on Lake Placid, but his idyllic retreat is shattered when a handsome stranger moves into the cabin across the water. Then again, perhaps it isn't a stranger, after all.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 30
Kudos: 84
Collections: The Terror Bingo (2019)





	1. Chapter 1

> _“I love you enough now. What do you want to do? Ruin me?”_
> 
> _“Yes. I want to ruin you.”_
> 
> _“Good,” I said. “That’s what I want too.”_
> 
> _-Ernest Hemingway,_ _A Farewell to Arms_

Francis R.M. Crozier sat in the shade of his lake-side porch. A cool spring breeze lightly ruffled his hair as he lazily caressed the keys of his vintage Halda portable typewriter - the very same model that Ernest Hemingway used to write his last book. Francis paused to take a sip from his glass of whiskey and gazed out over Lake Placid. The blue sky and white cotton candy clouds reflected gracefully in the water's surface, and all around, the first hints of green began to emerge - the promise of new life. It was perfect, he thought. The perfect place to get away from the noise and chaos of the city and focus on finishing his novel. 

So why hadn't he been able to get any writing done?

On the other side of the inlet from where Francis' cozy, rustic cabin was situated lay a sprawling, modern lake house - an eyesore, in Francis' opinion. The wall facing him was almost entirely made of glass panes, and it was large enough to house an entire arctic expedition comfortably. He had contacted the management company ahead of time to ensure that it would remain vacant during his stay. 

It wasn’t much of a bother though, all he had to do was look a little to the North to see the mountains rising to meet the clouds. He stared back at the empty page in front of him and sighed. 

He had three months left to finish his submission for the Franklin Foundation Prize for excellence in historical fiction, and after a week here, he’d hardly written a page. Francis knew the history of Arctic exploration better than some historians, so why couldn’t he get past the introduction? 

Francis picked up his pipe and brought the stem to his lips. It wasn’t even his pipe; it was John Franklin's, stolen from his house on one eventful night. Yes, Francis had a long and sordid history with the Franklin family. Thankfully, the award was only theirs in name. 

Francis heard a car horn chirp. He looked back across the lake to see a tall man getting out of a car with two suitcases. _Surely, he must have the wrong cabin_ , Francis thought. The man dropped his suitcases at the door and looked around, seemingly right at Francis, and waved. 

Francis stared. Was he waving at Francis? _How dare he._ He watched the man do something with his phone and then step into the cabin. 

No this can’t be right. Francis would call management and get this sorted. He pulled out his long-outdated model iPhone and flicked through his contacts to the _Caulker and Sons_ management group, then tapped the number to call.

“Hello this is E.C. How may I help you?”

“This is Francis Crozier, staying in unit 1 on Lake Placid. Someone just pulled into the unit across the lake, what is going on? I was assured that it would remain empty.”

“Hold on Francis, let me look up your listing.”

Before he could respond, Francis was cringing away from the sound of static-filled elevator music blaring in his ear. He grumbled to himself, wondering whether the kid on the other end of the phone was even old enough to hold a job, with a screechy voice like a weasel in heat. Of course - _of course_ he was British, to boot.

“Here we are, _Mr_. Frank Crozier. I’m afraid we had a last minute booking.”

“Well un-book it, I was here first!” Francis slammed his fist down on the table, pulling an agonized clanging sound from the typewriter. “And it's _Doctor_ Crozier, don’t you call me Frank!” 

“Geez, Sir, I’m sorry, I’m just the guy who answers the phones.”

Francis took a breath. “Is there anything you can do about this?”

“We can offer you a 5% discount coupon for your next visit of 30 days or more.”

_Fucking useless._ “Right. Fine. Good day.” 

Francis ended the call and dropped the phone on the table. He scowled across the water at the house that was supposed to have been vacant, as if his glare alone could send the interloper packing. He hadn't gotten a very good look at the man from such a distance, but he could tell by the way he carried himself that he was one of these young, over-confident types, vane and imperious. Very well, if there was nothing to be done, then Francis had to just hope that he would be a quiet, self-contained neighbor. With any luck, he'd see neither hide nor hair of him again for the remainder of his stay. 

Whatever hope Francis had of getting any writing accomplished that day was quickly evaporating. Even though the man across the lake had not re-emerged from the house, Francis could not stop thinking about the fact that he had been dealt with falsely by the rental company, and the more he thought about it, the more irritated he became. 

Finally giving up the afternoon as lost for writing, Francis gathered his pipe, his empty glass, and his typewriter, and went inside the cabin. He needed to find something else to do. Anything to keep him from staring at that blank piece of paper or the house across the water. 

*****

It was 3:47 in the morning and Francis couldn’t sleep. His head was pounding, that was probably part of it. Francis dragged himself out of bed and made his way into the kitchen, choosing to light the old oil lamp over the blinding halogen lights. He poured some whiskey into the glass that still sat on the counter from the night before. Then he set the kettle to boil and wandered out onto the porch. Here, he could actually see the stars without all the damn light of the city. The night sky was lit up with them in numbers infinitely beyond what he could ever hope to count. He was distracted from his stargazing when a light flashed on across the lake. Francis looked to the house, floor to ceiling windows glowing orange. The silhouette of a man made its way from one corner of the cabin to the other, looking more like an ant than a man in the giant building. 

_What the hell is he doing up?_ Francis wondered. He watched as the stranger descended the stairs, then walked out the door, flicking off the lights as he left, and walked into the darkness. _Ah, what's it to me? As long as he doesn't come bothering me, he can do whatever the hell he likes_. Francis' thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the kettle whistling. He put the mystery out of his mind for the moment and returned to the kitchen.

Francis poured the steaming water into a coffee mug and sprinkled a scoop full of Foldgers instant coffee into it. He glanced at his watch as he stirred the coffee. 4:00. His sister, Rachel, would just be getting breakfast ready for the kids. He quickly tucked the whiskey bottle out of sight beneath the counter, sat down at the table, and pulled up the Skype app on his phone. 

The screen lit up with Francis' image in a small box in the corner as the sound of a ringing phone emanated from the device. After a few rings, Rachel's face filled the screen. 

“Francis Crozier, what the heck are you doing up?”

"Couldn't sleep. And is that any way to greet your brother?" He heard the children squealing in the background and laughed. "I was up and thought I'd give my favorite sister a ring. That's all." 

“Could I get that in writing? Charlie insists she’s the favourite. How’s running off into the wilderness treating you?” 

"It's been grand," Francis said, easing quickly into his native Irish brogue, as he always did when speaking to his family. "Quiet and peaceful and gorgeous." 

“Mom can I speak to Uncle Francis?” A spot of red hair appeared in the corner of the screen. 

“Give me a minute, Frankie,” Rachel said, turning back to the camera, “Sorry about that, they’re excited.” 

"Hello, Frankie!" he called out to the little boy in the background. "How are the little ones?" Francis asked his sister, hoping to steer the conversation away from his writing - or lack thereof. 

“Oh you’re not getting out of this one so easily, Francis. It’s four in the morning over there, you’re not in the city that never sleeps anymore.” 

"So it is, and what does it matter? Time is a man-made construct, designed to imprison the masses. I do what I like, when I like." 

“Oh Francis.” She shook her head. “Sometimes I wonder if you’re more of a child than Frankie. Please tell me you’ve at least made progress on this book of yours?”

"Of course I have… I've written… a very long… paragraph?" He grimaced, knowing his sister wouldn't be put off. "But it's a truly meaningful paragraph, Rachel!"

“I’m sure it is.” She sighed. “I don’t know what you were thinking with this Arctic explorer idea, it’s all snow and ice and scurvy and then death! Why couldn’t you make it some Jane Austen romance or at least about the American Civil War or something?”

Francis rolled his eyes, but couldn't help a smile. "It's all been done before. I want to do something new and exciting! Something that hasn't been done before. I don't want people to read my book and think, 'Oh, it's a Jane Austen ripoff.' I want to make my own name."

“Fair enough. Well good luck, Francis. Don't let that John Fitzgerald guy beat you to the prize."

Francis laughed. "It's James Fitzjames, and I assure you, he will not."

"Good Lord, that name's even worse than what I said! No wonder you can't stand him.”

"I know, Rachel. He's as pretentious as he is incompetent."

"Hm… Careful, Francis. Don't let yourself become overconfident. Well, we’re heading to the natural history museum today, wish you could join us, point out everything that’s wrong.” Rachel turned to her side. “Frankie, Jane, say goodbye to your uncle!”

There was an outcry of excited little voices from behind Rachel, and Francis laughed, "Goodbye, children. You be good for your mother, you hear? Goodbye, Rachel."

The screen went dark, and Francis locked the phone. He took a long swig of his coffee and grimaced at the taste of it. Unwilling to waste it, he drank it all quickly and put the empty mug in the sink. He glanced out the window and noted that the other house remained dark. _Must be an early morning hiker. Lovely,_ he thought. _No bother there. Must be loaded, too, if he's rented that entire monstrosity of a cabin all on his own._

With a sigh, he flicked off the light and retreated to his bedroom where he flopped down on the mattress and, just as the first blush of dawn crept over the horizon, Francis finally fell asleep.

*****

Francis woke with a start. He was vaguely aware that there had been some noise that had woken him, but he was disoriented. With bleary eyes, he glanced at the clock. 9:46.

He felt as though he'd only fallen asleep moments ago. He was just about to lie down and go back to sleep when he heard a loud knock at the front door.

"Who in the bloody hell would be knocking on my door at this time in the morning…" he grumbled as he dragged himself out of bed. He threw on his bathrobe as he headed downstairs. Another knock sounded and he shouted, "Alright, I'm coming! Keep your skin on!" Reaching the door, he swung it open.

“I’m very sorry to intrude but I’ve- _Oh_ -” 

Francis knew that damn voice. He focused on the figure on his doorstep. It was none other than James Fitzjames.

“Francis. I didn’t realize you were here,” he said, shivering. For some reason James Fitzjames was soaking wet. 

"That makes two of us," Francis said, shock written plainly across his features. "Just what are you doing here?" He poked his head out the door and looked around, as if there might be a camera crew hiding around the corner. Satisfied that it was just the two of them, he returned his focus to James. "And why are you soaking wet? Oh, come on, you'd better get inside before you catch your death." He stepped aside, grudgingly allowing James to enter.

“Thank you. Well, It’s quite a story...”

"Of course it is," Francis mumbled under his breath, rolling his eyes when James' back was turned. He knew all about James Fitzjames' famous tall tales. He'd heard most of them himself at various times over the years. 

“I’ll spare you the details. I’ve lost my phone in the lake and I can’t get back into my cabin.”

" _Your_ cabin? Do you mean that house across the inlet?" He gestured toward the huge lake house, hoping that James would reply in the negative.

“That’s me.” James smiled and then shivered, pulling off his soaked sweater, dripping on Francis’ floor.

Somehow, Francis was able to restrain himself from swearing. He had come all the way from New York City, only to be followed by the one person in the world he most wanted to avoid? He wasn't sure whether he cared or not, but he was certain the annoyance showed on his face. 

"You're dripping all over my floor," he grumbled. "Wait here. I'll get you a towel." He turned, without waiting for a response, and went to the hallway closet, returning moments later with an oversized towel, which he shoved at James. "Now, why do you need your phone to get into your cabin?" he asked.

“E-key.”

"What the fuck is an e-key? Oh, never mind. What can I do for you, James? Why are you here?" He just wanted the man out of his living room, the quicker the better.

“Well I woke up thinking it would be a wonderful day to take a kayak out in the lake to watch the sunrise-”

"You can't be serious, James," Francis interrupted. "It's freezing cold out there! There's ice on the lake. What were you thinking?" 

“I’d show you the photos, Francis, but unfortunately they now rest in a watery grave in the depths of Lake Placid, and my other phone is locked away in the cabin. Perhaps they uploaded to the cloud...”

Francis stared at him, dumbfounded. His mind was still weary and none of this was making sense. "So, you can't get into your cabin because you've lost your phone. I suppose you'd better call the property manager and get a physical key, then. You can use my phone if you need to." 

“Yes, that is precisely why I am here.” James waved a hand motioning around the cabin. 

Francis pulled his phone from his robe pocket, but thought better of it before handing it over to James. He didn't trust the man. For all he knew, this could be some kind of ploy to gain information about him and his project. 

"Why don't I call them for you?"

“By all means.” James shrugged and turned to look at the decor on the mantle. 

Keeping half an eye on James, Francis scrolled once again through his contacts and tapped on the management company's number. The phone rang several times before someone finally picked up.

“Hello this is uh… Lake Placid Cottage Rental Agency. Uh… Tozer speaking, how may I help you?” a man with a low voice said. 

Francis' brow furrowed at the sound of the voice. He wasn't sure why, but something about it felt off. "Yes, hello, this is Francis Crozier. I spoke with someone there yesterday. The man in the giant cabin across the lake has been locked out, and he needs someone to bring him a real key. He lost his phone, so he can't do the i-key. Or whatever it's supposed to be. Can somebody bring him an actual key so he can get out of my house and into his own?"

Francis watched James wander towards the fireplace, making sure to touch all the figurines and picture frames. He paused there briefly, staring at the crossed swords than hung above.

“An _E-key,_ sir,” Tozer said, “Right, the manager can come down, but I’m afraid he’s in Saranac Lake right now, it’ll be at least an hour before he can get there.”

"An _hour_? No, that's not good enough. I need someone out here right now!" Francis couldn't believe this day could get any worse. "Isn't there someone else who could run a key over right now?"

“Manager’s the only one with the key I’m afraid. We here at Lake Placid Cabin Co. apologize for the inconvenience.”

"I thought you said…" Francis rubbed his forehead and let off a string of Irish Gaelic profanities. "Fine. Fine. Just...get here as soon as you can, alright?” He looked back to James, making his way across the carpet, leaving a trail. “He's soaking wet and dripping all over my floor."

“Sure thing, Mr. Francis.”

"It's Doctor--" but before he could finish his sentence, there was a loud click, and then dead silence on the phone. "They'll be here as soon as they can," Francis said to James. 

“Well, _Doctor_ Francis Crozier, I suppose we’ll have to amuse ourselves in the meantime.” James closed in on the desk, brushing his hands along the keys of Francis’ typewriter. “Oh, this is nice!”

Francis watched protectively. "It's an antique. Please be careful with it," he said fretfully. "Why don't I make you some hot chocolate? Or coffee? Help you warm up?" He hoped to draw James into the kitchen and away from his breakables and personal items.

James turned his head back. “Yes, hot cocoa would be lovely.” He leaned down to look over the desk. 

Francis cringed as he looked at James’ wet hair about to drip all over everything. 

“Is that a real 1960s Mont Blanc?”

Francis rushed over to the desk and scooped up the pen in his hands. "Yes, it is. And it has great sentimental value to me, so please do not touch it." 

“Alright, alright. If you’re so sensitive.” James raised up his hands. “Sounds like quite a story there, I’d love to hear it.”

"Not sensitive. I am… cautious," Francis corrected. "And the pen belonged to my mother. She passed away eight years ago, and I have precious few things left to remember her by. So, yes, it is valuable to me."

“Oh. My condolences, Francis, I didn't know,” James said, dropping the playfulness in his tone. 

"Thank you," Francis said with a conciliatory nod. "Now, let's see about that cocoa."

Francis stepped back into the kitchen and set the kettle. He opened the cabinet, and saw that the bottle of whiskey was still there from earlier. He sighed. Oh how he wanted to pour himself a glass now, but he wasn’t about to share his whiskey with James Fitzjames. He quickly closed the cabinet door before James could see the bottle.

"So, you've told me what you're doing here…" Francis gestured to where he was standing. "But you've not explained to me what the Hell you are doing _here_." He gestured all around them, at the lake outside the window. "Have you been following me, James?"

"Of course not, Francis. Are you always this paranoid? And they call _me_ melodramatic!" He scoffed, and Francis glared at him. "No, I'm not following you. I had no idea you'd be here, as a matter of fact, until the moment you opened that door, I thought you a perfect stranger. Anyway, I could ask the same of you: what are _you_ doing here, Francis?"

"I came here to find a little peace and quiet, so I can finish my book!" he said, trying to bite back his animosity, but not quite succeeding. "And everything was going perfectly well until _you_ showed up!"

"Ah, so you've gotten a lot written, have you?" James gave him a grin that said he knew very well this was not the case. 

"As a matter of fact, I… It's none of your business! I am _not_ discussing my book with _you_ , of all people!"

James held up his hands in surrender. "Alright, Francis, I meant no offense. As it happens, I also came here to do some writing. There's nothing sinister afoot here. We've simply both chosen the same locale for our idyllic writers' hideaways."

Francis wasn't sure he believed that. What were the odds? But he couldn't prove that the statement was false, so he let it slide. The kettle whistled, and Francis was pulled from his thoughts to retrieve it. He tipped the packets of cocoa mix into two mugs, and filled each one with the steaming water, then handed one to James. 

"There you go," he said.

James glanced dubiously into his mug before taking a tiny sip. His face contorted in disgust.

Francis frowned. "What's wrong? It's Swiss Miss. The good stuff!"

“Yes, but must you make it with water?”

"Well, what else should I make it with? Look here, it says right on the box: simply mix with hot water." 

“Ever heard of milk, Francis?”

Francis sighed. "Yes, of course I've heard of milk, James. But there is powdered milk in the mix! Oh, nevermind. Look, I don't have any milk, alright? If you don't like it, don't drink it."

“Right, well. Thank you for the… chocolate water.”

"You're welcome," Francis said, ignoring the sarcasm in James' tone. "Now, perhaps you'd like to swim back to your cabin to wait for the manager to arrive?" 

“Believe me Francis I would very much like to get out of your messy hair and get back to my writing, but I am a captain without a ship. My kayak shipwrecked and sank on Lake Placid.” 

Francis' mouth dropped open. "My _messy_ … Maybe if you hadn't come knocking on my door at the butt crack of dawn, waking me up out of a dead sleep, I would have had time to comb my hair!"

“Francis, it’s nearly ten o’clock.”

Francis' fist hits the table hard enough to knock the hot cocoa box over "That's enough! You come into _my_ cabin, drip all over my rugs, demand the use of my phone, insult my hot chocolate and now tell me I'm lazy? I think you should leave. Now."

James raised his free hand. “Alright, alright. You’re in a mood today. I’ll wait outside, I’ll leave the cup in your mailbox.” James turned towards the door. “And for the record I never called you _lazy._ ”

Francis was too angry to respond. He simply stared at James until he got up and walked out. It was true. James had not specifically called him lazy, in so many words. He sighed heavily. He had to hope that James would remain on his side of the water for the remainder of their stay, for the sake of his sanity.

Still, he watched through the window as a rusty white van pulled up at the end of the driveway and a short man with long orange hair walked out to greet James. James reluctantly reached out to shake his hand, that made Francis smile. He climbed into the car and drove off, Francis could hear its lack of muffler driving all the way around the lake. 

Francis got out his phone and scrolled through his contacts. He scrolled past “ _NO. DON’T TEXT (Sophia)”_ , _“Parry”_ , “ _STOP. NOW. (Ross)”_ , until he reached “ _T Blanky”_. 

10:23 “Thomas, you’ll never guess what happened”

_10:24 T Blanky: “What’s up, F?”_

Francis sighed, wondering where to begin.

10:24 “My trip is ruined”

_10:24 T Blanky: “Can’t imagine it’s that bad”_

10:25 “Fitzjames is here. In the stupid cabin across the lake” 

10:25 “He just showed up at my cabin, soaking wet”

_10:25 T Blanky: “Shit”_

_10:26 T Blanky: “What U gonna do about it?;-)”_

10:26 "I've already called the management company. They say there's nothing they can do about it."

10:27 _T Blanky: "Not what I mean, Francis ;-) ;-) ;-)"_

10:27 “Dammit Tom. He fell in the fucking lake.”

_10:27 T Blanky: “Did he now? Sure you didn’t push him in?”_

10:28 “No Tom!”

10:28 “I wish”

_10:29 T Blanky: “HA!”_

_10:29 T Blanky: “Well, F, I say make the best of it”_

What in the hell did he mean by that? Make the best of it? 

10:30 “What are you saying?”

_10:30 T Blanky: “U said he was hot”_

_10:30 T Blanky: “When U were drunk”_

_10:31 T Blanky: “On numerous occasions”_

_10:31 T Blanky: ”And what happens at the lackhouse stays at the lakehouse, eh?”_

_Had_ he said that? Francis wracked his brain trying to remember. But if he'd been drunk at the time, the memory was likely gone forever. Yes, fine, Francis had noticed Fitzjames' physique, with those long, lean legs of his and… but no. No, he would never have said such a thing to Thomas!

10:31 “Shut it Tom, I never said that!”

_10:33 T Blanky: “Did 2”_

_10:34 T Blanky: “I have screen pictures 2 prove it”_

_Shit. Is he bluffing? He could be bluffing. Best not to risk it._

10:35 “Fuck you Thomas”

_10:35 T Blanky: “Luv ya too, F.”_


	2. Chapter 2

Francis spent the rest of the day fuming about his unbelievably bad luck. He was dog tired, but was too wound up to sleep, so he'd showered and dressed and set up his typewriter on the deck, with his glass of whiskey to his right and his pipe to the left. Perhaps he could channel his rage against the universe into his writing. But he nearly choked on his pipe smoke when the door to the other cabin opened and James stepped outside wearing a pair of shorts that would have been more suited to a teenage girl, a pair of sunglasses, and nothing else.  __

James apparently heard him coughing because he shaded his eyes with one hand and looked straight in Francis' direction, then waved at him.  _ Good God, is he serious? _ Francis wondered. He lifted a hand rigidly in a not-quite-wave of acknowledgement and pointedly turned back to his typewriter, hoping that James would go back inside and finish dressing. 

James did not go back inside, nor did he don any more clothing. Instead, he sat down on his own patio and unfolded a MacBook on which he began to type, Francis uttered a growl of frustration, but couldn't quite keep his gaze from drifting back across the water. James was tanned, lean, and lanky, his long legs stretched out languidly beneath the table and crossed at the ankle. He considered registering a complaint of indecent exposure, but then he remembered that they were on a lake, in the middle of nowhere. People wore far less within the limits of the law. The difference, of course, was that not everyone was so bloody distracting. Finally, he gave up on writing and, with a huff, carried his things back inside, letting the door slam behind him. He hoped that James had heard it.

Despite Francis' fervent hopes to the contrary, James was back the following day, writing on the deck, and again wearing very little clothing. Francis allowed himself to look, briefly. After all, the view of the lake came with his rental, and he refused to give up the benefit of panoramic beauty simply because James had situated himself smack in the middle of it. The fact that Francis had begun to  _ admire  _ him as part of that view was something he chose not to dwell on. Accepting that he would get no writing done as long as James was sitting half naked on his deck, Francis took the opportunity to take inventory of his kitchen and toiletry supplies. 

*****

Francis emerged from the Walgreens with his tote bags full of supplies and headed down the Main Street through Lake Placid towards his Subaru WRX.

He unlocked the car and loaded everything into the trunk. 

“You know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were stalking me.”

Francis jumped, nearly hitting his head on the rear hatch. He turned around to see James Fitzjames, drinking a Starbucks iced coffee, wearing neon green sunglasses, an ‘I Love Lake Placid’ cropped sweatshirt and, somehow, an even  _ shorter  _ pair of shorts. 

“Fuck’s sake James!” he yelled.

“Fancy seeing you here, Francis.” James took a sip of his coffee and leaned against the roof of Francis’ car, blocking the driver’s side door. 

“Why the hell are you here, James? Are you following me around now? Is this all some sort of plot to sabotage me?”

“You give me too much credit. I’m simply here to get my caramel macchiato.” He shook his drink, ice rattling. 

“Awfully long way to go for coffee.” 

“Not really, took a canoe across the lake. For you, that would be too much trouble, when there’s coffee at home, wouldn’t it? What do you drink? Let me guess, Maxwell House instant?”

“Get out of my way, James.” Francis opened the door, sending James stumbling to catch his footing. 

Francis climbed into the seat and started the car, pulling out of the spot.

“Best of luck with the writing, Francis!” James called after him, grinning. 

Francis leaned out of the window. “I hope you tip your canoe, James!” 

He sighed as he drove off down the long road that took a detour circling the mountain before reaching the cabin. 

*****

Francis looked from his blank page to the sky turning pink outside.  _ Another day, no new words, _ he thought. If he was being sensible, he would go to bed. 

As if in answer to his thoughts, the birds screeched just outside his cabin. No, he would never sleep with _ that  _ racket. 

Francis was out in nature, he might as well make the best of it. He stood from his desk, remembering the old binoculars he’d brought along. If he had to hear these damn birds, he’d take a good look at them too. 

Moments later, with binoculars in hand, stepped out onto the porch, which creaked beneath his feet. Francis looked around trying to spot the source of the chirps and tweeting, but instead all he could focus on was the house across the lake. The lights were on. It would be easy to take a quick glance… 

No. Francis would not let James Fitzjames and his barely-clothed shenanigans get in his head. 

Unless, seeing what he was up to could give him some better idea of what he was planning next. Maybe it would give Francis the upper hand. Francis almost couldn’t afford to lose this opportunity to look… 

He brought the binoculars to his eyes and focused in on the house. He spotted James right away, moving around the kitchen. 

Francis looked away.  _ What the hell am I doing? _ Perhaps, a better question is:  _ what the hell is James doing _ ?

He looked back into the kitchen. James moved away from the counter, and then back. Francis watched, bemused. What _was_ he doing? James was swaying, almost as if he was dancing, alone in his kitchen, his hips moving rhythmically. He spun, then threw his head back dramatically before turning his attention to the stove for a few moments, his hips still swaying to some music Francis couldn't hear. 

Francis felt ashamed, as if he was witnessing something very private, but his curiosity and fascination would not allow him to look away now. He zoomed in. Having taken care of whatever was on the stove, James began to dance again. In his hand, he held a wooden spoon as if it was a microphone, and he appeared to be singing with great gusto. Francis almost wanted to know what song it was. James wore an apron with ‘kiss the cook’ written across it in large red letters, along with a huge "S.W.A.K." lipstick mark. 

_ Could he be any more obnoxious? _ thought Francis. Still, he found himself wondering again what kind of music James Fitzjames listened to. Why did that matter? 

Francis let the binoculars drop, the cord pulling at his neck. Still, he stared at the silhouette of James dancing about the space, mesmerized. Francis found himself questioning every decision he’d made that led up to this moment. There was James Fitzjames, having a ball, and here was Francis, bored on his porch, staring at him. 

He finally pulled himself away and back into the cabin. Francis would go to sleep now, and in the morning he would do  _ something  _ meaningful. 

*****

Francis woke some hours later to bright afternoon sunshine streaming in through his window. His first thought was of his novel, but just thinking of trying to write gave him a sour feeling in the pit of his stomach. He couldn't face staring at that blank page. Not now. Not after what he'd seen earlier. 

_ What am I thinking? Don't be an ass, Francis. So you saw the man dancing. So what? _

Francis dragged himself out of bed and wandered downstairs to make himself a cup of instant Folgers coffee. James had gotten it nearly right, and that thought irritated him. Then he remembered how awful the coffee had been, and decided not to bother. 

He'd been meaning to take a hike ever since he'd arrived, but hadn't gotten around to it yet. Today would be the perfect day, with the shining sun and pleasant temperature. Maybe he could even get his mind off James Fitz-bloody-James and his magic hips. He cringed. James' hips were the last thing he needed to be thinking about. Yes, a hike was definitely in order. 

Once he had dressed and slathered himself in sunscreen and insect repellent, Francis headed out with his trail map in hand. He stood at the trailhead, at the foot of Whiteface Mountain, and stared at the steep path that led ahead. 

_ I can do this _ , he told himself and began his hike upwards. 

He saw a number of people on his way, all going down. Some waved or smiled politely, some cast dubious looks his way, while others just continued on, out of breath. Francis had thought he’d fare better, but before too long he stopped to take a drink of water and catch his breath. 

“Well, and what do we have here?”

_ Shit, _ Francis thought as he looked up at the owner of that dreaded voice. There he was, leaning casually against a tree trunk, hair glistening with perspiration and a smug grin on his lips. 

"What does it look like?" Francis said. "I'm taking a hike."

“I can see that. Please tell me you’re on your way  _ down _ , you can’t be starting up this late in the day.”

"Why not? I don't answer to you and your schedule, James." 

“No, but it’ll be dark before you reach the top, and that’s if you’re hiking at  _ my _ pace. It’s a dangerous climb down in the dark. And then there’s the bears.” 

"Now wait just a moment, James. At  _ your _ pace? What does that mean? I may be older than you are, but I can still get around every bit as well as you!" Francis was not at all sure that this was true, but he didn't care. 

“Sure, Francis, whatever you need to tell yourself. Look I can’t stop you, all I can do is offer my word of warning.”

"Fuck you and fuck your words of warning," Francis spat. "I don't need to take safety advice from a man who spends his mornings prancing about his kitchen like it's a rock concert stage!" No sooner had the words escaped his mouth than Francis knew he'd given himself away. How could he have made such a thoughtless mistake? He blamed James. 

“I-” James’ mouth fell open and his face flushed red. 

“Well,” James said after a long silence. He pushed himself away from the tree and walked past Francis. “Very well then. I do hope you don’t die, Francis.”

Francis was mortified. He decided, in that moment, that this week could not possibly get any worse. Still, once he was absolutely certain that James had walked out of view, he turned around and headed back, grumbling to himself the entire way.

*****

By the time Francis reached his cabin, he had to admit that James had been right about one thing: he never would have made it to the peak and back before nightfall. The sun was already dipping low on the horizon, casting the sky in vivid pinks and oranges. He went inside and made himself a cup of hot chocolate, with a healthy portion of whiskey, and walked out onto his porch to enjoy the sunset. 

As darkness fell, he watched as James' cabin became illuminated from within, and with a lurch of his heart, he saw James walk into view, wearing nothing but a towel, wrapped tightly around his waist. Francis looked around guiltily, but of course he was perfectly alone. He knew he shouldn't do it, but almost without his conscious permission, he was compelled to hurry inside and grab the binoculars he'd been using earlier that morning. Just a little peek. James would never know, and it wouldn't hurt anything, surely. 

Inside his kitchen, Francis leaned against the counter, with his binoculars pressed to his face and focused in on James. The way he moved was almost obscene in its self-assurance. He knew very well that he was an attractive man - there was no question about that. Francis tore the binoculars away from his face and set them down on the counter, cursing his own weakness. He took a drink of his cocoa and stared at the binoculars. He should put them away and go make dinner. 

He  _ should _ . 

Francis swiped the binoculars off the counter and focused back on James.  _ What is he doing? _ Francis wondered. James turned slightly and he caught a flash of light from his hands. He was texting - or doing something on some social media network. Francis couldn't keep up with them all.  _ What ever happened to MySpace? _

He tried to get a look at the phone, but it was hopeless. Moreover, it didn't  _ matter  _ what the hell he was doing. Francis needed to get a grip. Just then, James did something with his hand, and the towel slipped free, dropping to the floor. 

"Oh  _ shit! _ " Francis nearly dropped the binoculars, but managed to catch them in time. His heart pounded as he stared, transfixed, at a completely naked James Fitzjames.  _ Damn… _ He looked every bit as good without clothing as he had in the skimpy little things he'd worn around town. His long, slender legs stretched elegantly, like tender saplings, to the sensual swell of his perfectly rounded backside - the forbidden fruit. Francis remembered the way James had moved his hips that morning, and he felt a hot flush creep up his neck. He let his eyes sweep from James' ass, up the graceful arc of his spine to his sleekly muscled shoulders, and had to admit that the man would give Michelangelo's David a run for his money.. He knew he should look away, but he couldn't. And then, the unthinkable happened. 

James Fitzjames turned to face Francis, still fully nude. Through the binoculars, Francis could see his lips tug into the most smug grin he'd ever seen, as he raised a hand to wave.

Once he'd recovered from the shock and horror of having been found out, he felt rage wash over him.  _ How dare he toy with me like this?  _ He quickly turned out the lights so that he could not be seen in the darkness, but when he lifted the binoculars to take another look, James was still standing there, still waving, and now laughing. To Francis' complete disgrace, James took a bow, turned around for full effect, bent at the waist and picked up the towel. Then he casually walked out of the room, closing the door to leave Francis, still staring, furious, with a raging hard-on. 


	3. Chapter 3

Francis managed to spend the whole day without looking out his window. Every time he thought about the show he'd witnessed the previous night, he felt a curious mix of rage and arousal, which only made him more angry. He tried to write, but it just didn't work. Every time he stared at the blank page before him, all he saw was James' bare ass staring back at him. 

As evening finally rolled around, he heard thunder rumbling, and distant flashes of lightning illuminated the dark cabin. With darkness falling, he was tempted again to look into the house across the lake. He walked into the kitchen and glared at the binoculars, which still sat on the counter next to the sink. What harm could possibly come from looking _now_? James obviously didn't care. He was probably enjoying the whole thing! 

Determined, he crossed the room and picked up the binoculars. But just when he was ready to look, the clouds seemed to open up. Torrents of rain beat down, making waves on the lake, and the space between them was nearly opaque with the intensity of the downpour. He felt more disappointed than he wanted to admit. With a sigh, he set the binoculars down on the counter and went back to the living room.

The storm carried on well into the night. When he finally crawled into bed, the sound of the rain on his roof wrapped him in warmth like a favorite quilt, reminding him of evenings spent in his parents' home in Banbridge as a child. For the first time since arriving at the lake, Francis fell into a deep, restful sleep. 

He startled awake when he heard a loud crash. He looked outside and saw that a tree had crashed down to the forest floor right outside, barely missing his cabin.

He reached for the light switch, flicking it on, but found himself still in the dark. It would be alright; the generator would kick in soon. He stumbled out to the living room and lit the oil lamp on his desk instead. He found his glass and poured himself some of the whiskey bottle that conveniently stood beside his typewriter. 

The bottle was about to run out, which concerned him more than the power outage. Francis had almost gone through the whole thing in the last day. Fortunately, he'd had a whole crate of Jameson delivered before his arrival. 

Francis slumped back into his spot on the sofa and began to doze off. 

It was a knocking that woke him this time. He groaned and stumbled towards the door. 

“What the hell do _you_ want?” he called as he opened the door. 

“Oh Francis, I don’t mean to trouble you, but a tree just fell through my living room!” James Fitzjames stood on his doorstep, soaking wet.

"What?" Francis blinked. Was this man _never_ fully clothed and dry? But, damn… the soaked t-shirt and dripping hair became him.

"Well, come in then," he grumbled, stepping back to allow James entry. 

“Ah, thank you.” James trudged past him, dripping water across the floors.

Francis sighed. "Did you have to bring half the lake in with you, James?" he said, but then realized that he was still shivering. "I guess I'd better get you some dry clothes," he said. His eyes darted to the half-empty glass on the coffee table and he grabbed it, thinking he would take it with him. 

“Oh, is that for me?” James asked. Without waiting for an answer, he promptly took it from Francis’ hand. He brought it to his lips and knocked his head back, and poured it down his throat before Francis could even react. 

“Ah, thank you,” James said, holding out the empty glass. 

Francis stared at him. He would have been impressed if he wasn't so irritated. He took the glass and set it back on the coffee table for the moment. "Wait here, James. I'll go and find you something dry to put on. It may not fit perfectly, but it will be better than catching cold wearing soaking wet clothes." 

Francis left James in the living room and rummaged through his dresser drawer for something with a drawstring that could be cinched enough to fit his narrower waist. 

"Ah, this will work," he said quietly, pulling out the nice flannel pyjama set he'd been given ages ago. He always packed it whenever he traveled, thinking he would wear it, but never seemed to get around to actually putting it on. Draping it over his arm, Francis headed back to the living room, but stopped short when James came into view.

He had stripped off his wet clothes and now stood in the middle of the room wearing nothing but a pair of wet boxer shorts, which left nothing to the imagination. His clothes lay in a soggy heap on the living room floor. Once he'd regained a normal heart rate, Francis shoved the pajamas at him and turned around to give him privacy. 

"Those should work," he said, struggling not to look at James. "They might be a little big on you, but there's a drawstring." 

“Ralph Lauren, these are nice, Francis. Who knew you’d own a pair of pyjamas like this,” James said. “And I see the tag is still attached…”

"Yes, I haven't worn them yet, so you needn't worry about being contaminated by my… by _me_."

“Oh I wouldn’t be worried about that, Francis.” His tone was almost suggestive. 

Francis heard the slap of wet fabric hitting the hardwood floor and he swallowed hard. _Fuck...he's naked, right behind me_ , he realized. _I need another drink_ , was quick to follow. 

"I'll just leave you to dress, then, and… um… get us another drink," he said. He didn't bother turning to retrieve the empty glass, but hurried into the kitchen before James could do or say anything else, and even more importantly, before James could notice the state he was in. 

Once in the kitchen, he leaned against the cabinets and drew in a deep breath, trying to calm himself. This could not be happening. And yet, this _was_ happening. He willed his body to relax as he opened the cupboard and scanned its contents. Next to the cereal boxes, he spotted another bottle of whiskey, this one three-quarters full. _Ah, yes. I forgot about you,_ he thought as he grabbed it with a shaky hand. 

With two glasses poured and his treacherous arousal sufficiently calmed, he walked slowly back to the living room. He was almost afraid of what he would find when he rounded the corner, but James was fully clothed in Francis' pyjamas, and snooping through the items on his writing desk. 

"Here," he said, to get James' attention. He no longer cared about whatever James was doing at the moment. "I brought you a refill. Come and sit down."

“Ah wonderful.” James reached for the glass, his cold fingers brushing past Francis’. 

Francis felt a chill sweep over him at the touch. He sat down on the couch and gestured for James to join him. "You said there was a tree through your window? Have you called the management company?"

James sat down right beside him. “Right through the roof, shattering all the glass. I’d try, but I have very little faith in that Cornelius or whatever his name was.”

"Well, there's one thing we can agree on," Francis said with a huff of a laugh. "But what will you do, then? You can't very well stay in a house with a tree through the window. What about your things? They'll be ruined." 

“Yes, I don’t think there’s much to be done until this storm passes. I have very good insurance, so there’s not much to worry about.”

"Ah, well I suppose we can be thankful for small mercies," Francis said. A wet ringlet had fallen into James' face, and Francis had a strong compulsion to brush it away, but he stayed his hand. "Well, this storm doesn't seem in any hurry to blow over, but…" He hesitated, knowing full well that he would regret the words that were about to come out of his mouth. "You're welcome to stay here until the weather lets up." He took a long swallow of whiskey and tried very hard not to look at the renegade curl. 

“Really, Francis? I wouldn’t want to impose… but I don’t exactly have many options do I?” James leaned in and placed a hand on Francis’ knee. “I would appreciate that very much.”

Francis shuddered. _Yes, the regret is kicking in now._ He moved his knee away and crossed his legs. 

“It’s no bother.” _Except it is._ “Besides, I can’t exactly leave you out in that.” He drained his glass and immediately refilled it from the bottle he'd left there earlier. 

“I suppose not.” James sighed. He leaned back on the couch and began combing through his wet curls with his hand. 

Francis tracked his fingers, willing them to brush the strand from his forehead, but they never did. It remained, one solitary ringlet, taunting him. "You've got… just…" He gestured toward the curl, but James just looked at him blankly. Francis took another drink and slammed the glass down on the table for no good reason. Unable to resist any longer, he reached over and brushed the curl from James' face, tucking it behind his ear. 

James stared back at him with those eyes of his, his mouth falling open, like he was about to say something, but stopped himself.

“I uh- Thanks, Francis,” he managed. 

"No… nothing, it's nothing. I just… Why don't you go and lie down? Get some sleep," Francis said. 

“Oh no, I’m afraid I won’t be able to get to sleep for a while, after all that action.”

Francis squirmed uncomfortably. "Are you sure? I need to get some writing done, and you're welcome to lie down on the bed while I write." He needed to remove himself from James' company before he did something he'd truly regret. The effects of the whiskey were beginning to dull his inhibitions. "Go on, it's just through there."

“As flattered as I am that you’re inviting me into your bed, I’m afraid I’m quite sure.”

"So, what? You're just going to sit here and watch me write?"

“Yes, exactly. I’m quite fascinated by that typewriter of yours. Unless, that’s a problem?”

_You're damn right, it's a problem_ , Francis thought. He would _never_ be able to focus with James sitting there staring at him… looking like he did… in Francis' pyjamas… "Fine! Fine, James, whatever you want," he said, waving a hand. 

“That’s settled then.” James leaned on the armrest and crossed his legs, sipping his whiskey.

Francis stood up and lost his balance for a split second. He crossed the room to his typewriter and flopped down, wondering just how long he needed to keep up this ridiculous charade. Perhaps, if he began typing, James would get bored and go away. He cast one last glance over at James before beginning to type: 

> The night was dark and stormy, and the obnoxious - albeit _hot_ man in the next cabin over would not leave me the fuck alone. What was I to do?

He shot a quick glance over at James, but he was still sitting there, watching him with a bemused look. Francis sighed. 

"What do you want, James?" he finally asked, exasperated. "I can't write with you sitting there staring at me."

“I want...” James sighed dramatically. “I don’t know Francis, what are you even doing writing this late?”

"Is there a right and wrong time of day to write?" he asked. "For that matter, what are _you_ even doing, sitting there all smug with your hair and your… other… stuff!" 

“My _hair and other stuff_ ? Francis I have been through quite an ordeal, if you don’t mind. Some of us can’t go back to _business as usual_ like you. I’m sorry if my presence here offends you so.”

Francis heaved himself up from his writing desk and returned to the sofa to sit beside James. "You aren't offending me, James. I didn't mean that. I'm sorry. I just… you can be very… well, distracting. And you know, it's not necessarily a _bad_ thing, but I just… I can't stop looking at you." He blushed, knowing he'd said too much.

“Oh Francis, I-” James stared at him. 

"And now I'm making a fool of myself. If you're not going to go to bed, then maybe I'll just go myself." He made to get up from the couch, but felt James grasp his wrist. He paused. 

“Francis, wait.” He didn’t look up to meet Francis’ eye. “Christ, Francis, you’re the distracting one! I haven’t written a word with you here, across the lake.”

"Very funny, James. I'm in no mood for your teasing," Francis said, feeling his face redden even more. He couldn't throw James out in the storm, but he could at least lock him out of the bedroom for the night.

James didn’t let go. “You think that’s all this was? Teasing? Of course, I took it a bit far. I liked watching you squirm, _making_ you squirm. But you wouldn’t pay attention to me otherwise, so what choice did I have?” He finally looked up, earnestly.

Francis stared back at him. If this was a joke, then James was the world's best at keeping a straight face. "You're serious…" he said quietly. He glanced down at James' hand, still encircling his wrist, then back up into his face. "I… don't know what to say. This isn't the sort of thing that I'm good at."

“Francis, you’re just like the characters in your books, the brooding love interest everyone pines for. You must really enjoy being alone.” He glanced around the cabin. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t understand how you could be.”

_He's drunk,_ Francis thought. _Otherwise, he would not say these things._ "I hate being alone," he said, simply. 

James stared for a long moment, then leaned in and kissed Francis.

Francis' eyes widened and his whole body tensed for a moment, but he quickly melted into the kiss, lifting a hand to cradle James' face as he repositioned himself on the couch. He felt James' hands busily tugging at the buttons of his shirt, and he gladly allowed it, trying his best to help. He returned the favor, fumbling with the buttons on the pajama top, still kissing him. 

Francis allowed his body to take over. His rational mind told him this was a bad idea, but he shoved that part of his brain out the door into the storm, and tossed away the key. Having slipped the shirt off James' shoulders, his hands moved to his waist, tugging at the drawstring, driven by a primal need he had not felt in a long time. 

“Oh Francis,” James moaned between kisses. “So, the floor or the sofa?” 

"Neither…" Francis groaned. "Bed." Reluctantly he broke the kiss long enough to stand up, pulling James with him. 

“Ah yes, of course. I recall I still have an invitation.”

"Shut up for one second and kiss me again," Francis said, pulling him toward the bedroom, stumbling slightly as he tried to continue kissing James as they moved. Once inside, however, he realized he was entirely unprepared. Breathlessly, he pulled away. 

"Stay right here, James. I won't be a moment. Just running to the kitchen for some olive oil." 

"Don't be ridiculous, Francis. In my bag. There's a bottle of lube in there. Go and get it. And hurry."

Francis nodded. As quickly as he could, without falling over, he turned and went to the living room. James' Lacoste shoulder bag was sitting on the floor beside the door. He grabbed it and pulled the zipper open, hoping that he would easily locate the bottle in question, but he was instead greeted by an array of tubes, bottles, jars, and other containers Francis didn't have a word for. He rummaged through them, becoming more frustrated by the moment as he grabbed a hair gel, a tube of scented hand lotion, a travel sized bottle of shampoo, and something else he couldn't even identify. He opened a side pocket and paused as his gaze fell on the words, " _Love in the Time of Scurvy_ \-- _working title_ ," and " _The Terror???_ " written in pen above. It was James' manuscript! Francis bit his lip, torn between curiosity and his insistent erection. Finally, he grabbed the appropriate bottle and ran back to the bedroom. 

"I'm sorry it took so long, James. I didn't realize you carried an entire pharmacy with y---" Francis trailed off as he realized that James, sprawled across his bed like a giant starfish, was fast asleep. 

For a few moments, he actually thought he might cry. Not only was his spontaneous plan for the evening clearly not going to work out, but his bed had been taken over as well. He considered sleeping on the couch, but the thought of the back pain he would endure come morning was enough to convince him otherwise. With a long sigh, Francis set the bottle of lube down on the nightstand and crawled into bed, shoving James' arm out of the way so he could get under the blanket. 

Francis lay stiffly on his side next to James, practically hanging off the edge of the bed, listening to the sound of his breathing. He felt the mattress shift beneath him and realized that James was moving. Hope rose in his chest at the thought that James had awakened, but before he could roll over, he felt a long arm snake over his shoulder and come to rest, draped over him. James' hand dangled limply at Francis' chest, his body pressed up behind him, and James murmured something unintelligible in his sleep.

Francis lay frozen for a few moments, unsure of what to do; this had never been part of the plan. But as James fell back into a deep, even breathing pattern, Francis found his own body relaxing. He even allowed himself to lean back against James, enjoying the solidness and the warmth of his body. He realized that it felt good, and the realization worried him. 

With the whiskey finally leaving his system, he started wondering what the hell he'd been thinking. The very _last_ thing Francis Crozier needed at this time was to develop feelings for _this_ man! And yet, lying there with the warmth of James' breath on the back of his neck and the weight of his arm slung across Francis' body, he could not bring himself to move. He lay awake like that for several minutes, wondering what to do. The moment James moved his arm, Francis made his escape, scooting out of his grasp and off the edge of the bed. He was free.

Francis stood by the bed for a moment, watching James sleep. He looked so peaceful, if not quite elegant, sprawled across the bed like a dying insect, his hair once again flopping in his face. Francis shook his head and quietly left the room, pulling the door closed behind him. 

Back in the living room, he went straight for the shoulder bag. As quietly as he could, in the silence of the house, he unzipped the bag and pulled out the manuscript. Francis sat down on the sofa and flipped over the cover page.

The very first words caught his eye and he had to read them three times to be certain he was seeing clearly. 

> Death is slow in the cold white nothing. Every Arctic explorer knows this, some have seen it happen, but Commander George Fairholme had never sailed farther north than the 60th parallel. 

James had chosen to write about polar exploration, again. Since James' first successful novel had also focused on Arctic exploration, Francis had never suspected that he might return to that subject matter now. He'd had his time, and now it was Francis' turn! Still, he composed himself and began to read….


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning, here there be swordfights. 
> 
> Yes, you heard that right! 
> 
> Oh, and explicit content! This fic is now earned its rating.

An odd sound filtered through the haze of Francis' consciousness as his eyes fluttered open. He looked around, disoriented for a moment, until he realized that he must have fallen asleep on the sofa, after all. The crick in his back confirmed this fact as he sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. 

Once he was fully alert, Francis realized that the sound he'd been hearing was coming from the kitchen. Someone was preparing food. Judging by the aroma and the sizzling sound, Francis guessed it was bacon. It smelled delicious. 

In front of the burners stood James Fitzjames, barefoot...  _ without any pants _ . He wore one of Francis’ shirts and it was only just long enough to be decent - not that anything else about this sight was decent. He picked up one of the pans and tossed up a pancake. 

He did also notice a distinct lack of dancing. But maybe that was best, for the sake of Francis’ mind, if James wasn’t wearing anything under that shirt. 

James opened the cupboard, searching for something. He reached for something on the top shelf, the shirt pulling enough to let Francis know that there was, in fact, nothing underneath. 

An image popped into Francis’ head, of walking up behind James and bending him over the counter, just like that. He shook his head, it was too early in the morning for such thoughts.  _ Was it? _ This was James he was talking about.

James turned around, flipping back a lock of hair, and smiled right at Francis. 

Francis couldn't believe James' gall. He shook his head, but couldn't help returning the smile. "I see you've made yourself at home," he said. "Smells good. And you've managed not to burn the house down, so that's an added bonus."

“Well good morning, look who’s awake!” James said, leaning on the counter with his hand on his hip. “I’m offended by the lack of tea in this kitchen, Francis.”

"Well, I can make you some coffee if you like," Francis suggested. "I've got a can of Folgers instant granules above the stove." Francis contemplated eating breakfast and  _ then _ bending James over the counter. Yes, that was a better plan, surely.

“Folgers instant? So my guess was almost correct. No, I’m alright, thanks.”

"Suit yourself," Francis said, ignoring the jab."I have to agree with you on the instant coffee, anyway. It's horrible stuff." He sat down at the little kitchen table and poured himself a full glass of whiskey. 

“Huh. You know Francis, I’m starting to think we might have more in common than you think.” James brought over two plates of pancakes and bacon and sat across from Francis, his knees bumping into Francis' as he settled. 

“Aren’t you at least going to pour me a glass as well?” James said, after staring at Francis’ bottle for a long moment, 

"It's a long leap from tea to whiskey, James," Francis returned, but he got up and retrieved a second glass anyway, placing it on the table in front of James and pouring the whiskey for him. 

“Well, if you’re drinking at this hour, I thought I might as well too,” James quipped.

Francis slumped back into his chair. "Does one not bring one's habits to the lake house, James?" 

“Pardon?” James just stared back at him.

Francis waved a hand dismissively. "Nevermind. Drink up." He lifted his glass in a mock salute and took a long drink. He had a feeling that, by the time James left his cabin, he would have gone through every bottle he'd brought with him.

“Here’s to that.” James raised his own glass, taking a sip, before returning to his pancakes. 

Francis looked down at the plate in front of him. "This looks really good," he said with an unmistakable note of surprise. He'd never considered James to be the domestic type. He cut a piece of pancake with his fork and brought it to his mouth. It  _ was _ good. Very good, in fact.

"Where did you learn to cook like this, James?" he asked, spearing another bite of pancake and munching happily. 

“My mother, actually. She had quite a thing for baking, every school bake sale and fundraiser we’d make something. My brother never took to it.” 

"Well, then, my compliments to your mother," Francis said, the combined effects of food and whiskey in his belly softening his mood considerably. 

“I’ll be sure to pass that on when I’m in Brighton for Christmas.” James took a sip of his whiskey then looked back at Francis. “I figured I’d make you breakfast to make up for passing out in your bed last night, sorry to put you out like that.”

Francis kept his gaze downcast on the food. "We were both drunk, James. I can hardly fault you for falling asleep," he said. Did he dare to mention what happened before that? Did he even want to? He picked up a piece of bacon and shoved it into his mouth. 

“Still… I was just so exhausted, it was quite unlike me.”

"Was it?" Francis said, poking at his pancakes with his fork. Blurred images danced around the corners of his memory. "I must confess I was…  _ surprised _ to find you passed out over my bed like that, but it was no trouble." Of course this was not true.

“Oh.” James looked down, poking at his breakfast. “Well alright then.” The look in his eyes contradicted his words, though. He looked almost disappointed.

"James…" Francis said, hesitantly glancing up from his meal. "Did you…" He searched for the appropriate words, but came up with nothing. "Nevermind," he said, annoyed with himself. He took one last bite of pancake and set down his utensils. "Thank you for the excellent breakfast. I think I'm still a bit hungover. I'm going to lie down and rest my eyes for a few minutes, and then we can decide what to do with the rest of the day."

James just nodded, standing to collect their plates. 

Francis slunk off to the bedroom and crawled under the covers. He could still smell James on the sheets and he pinched his eyes closed.  _ You idiot, _ he thought to himself.  _ What are you doing? You ought to march back out there and just kiss him! _ Francis groaned. He just felt so tired, and nothing made sense in his mind.  _ Yes...kiss him and then bend him over the kitchen counter… _

He turned his head and his gaze fell on the bottle of lube sitting there on the nightstand.  _ What the hell… James must have brought that with him on purpose. Had he been planning for this the whole time?  _ Another thought followed right on its heels:  _ How long has James been thinking of me this way? _ The questions chased one another around in circles inside his head. He just needed to rest his eyes. Just a few moments of quiet was all he needed…

When Francis woke, it was still raining outside, and he had no idea what time it was. He shot up in bed, panicked. How long had he been sleeping? And where was James? What had he been doing all that time? 

The moment Francis opened the bedroom door, he was greeted by the smell of freshly baked cookies. He wondered briefly whether he was still dreaming. 

"James?" he called, shuffling out into the living room. 

“Feeling any better, Francis?” James said, greeting him with a plate of cookies. He was in much the same state, except the shirt was unbuttoned dangerously low and he’d done something with his hair. 

"Yes, I… James, did you bake cookies?" He stared dumbly at the plate of cookies for a long moment before finally taking one and biting into it. Once again, it was delicious. 

“I did. Bit of an improvised recipe given what you had lying around. Hope you don’t mind?”

Francis wondered how James had found ingredients to make anything resembling the cookie he now held in his hand. It was nothing short of remarkable. "No, I don't mind. You still haven't burned down the cabin, so why should I mind?" He took another cookie off the plate. "If I go back to bed again, will I wake up to a three course meal?" The moment he said it, he knew he shouldn't have. He'd been trying to make a joke, but it had come out all wrong. 

“Well,” James said, pulling the plate slightly away from Francis. “If you insist on sleeping all day then perhaps you might.”

"I hardly think I've been sleeping  _ all day _ , James," he countered. Whatever guilt he'd felt for his previous comment was rapidly diminishing. "And anyway, I wouldn't have had to sleep today if you hadn't kept me up last night!"

“Oh, I kept you up last night?” James set the plate down on the table and crossed his arms. “Here I thought you were just starting your writing for the day.”

Francis rolled his eyes. He didn't want to argue, but James just seemed to know exactly how to get under his skin. "If you hadn't come knocking on my door looking like a drowned kitten, I would have been asleep in bed." He realized only after saying this that it wasn't exactly true. The lightning crash and falling tree had wakened him, but he wasn't about to admit this to James. 

James sighed. “Alright, fine. I’ll be sure to avoid keeping you up tonight.”

Francis clenched his fists and felt the remains of his second cookie crumble in his hand. "It isn't as if you tried very hard last night, when it comes to it. I had thought that--" He bit his tongue and walked into the kitchen to throw the cookie crumbs into the trash. "I don't understand what it is that you want from me."

“You know, I think I’ve answered my own question about you, Francis.” James said, uncrossing his arms and pacing through the living room. “You push people away, make yourself distant anytime they suggest something just outside your comfort zone. Perhaps that’s why we’ve been rivals all this time. Petty arguments and grudges, when we could have made better use of our time. Why is that, do you think, Francis?”

James turned and picked up his shoulder bag and a book from the self and walked into Francis’ bedroom, closing the door behind him. The lock clicked. 

Francis watched him go, flinching at the finality of the lock turning. Resigned, he reached for the bottle on the counter and unscrewed the lid. He didn’t bother with a glass this time, lifting the bottle up to his lips, and barely felt the burn of the whiskey sliding down his throat. He glanced from the closed bedroom door, over to his typewriter on the desk. Obviously he wasn't going to be spending any "quality time" with James today. He'd might as well try to get some writing done. 

Sitting down at his desk, Francis read the words he had typed the night before:

> The night was dark and stormy, and the obnoxious - albeit  _ hot _ man in the next cabin over would not leave me the fuck alone. What was I to do?

Francis groaned and pulled the paper free from the typewriter. He balled it up in his hands and tossed it into the trash can, then spooled a blank sheet of paper into the machine. 

_ You push people away, make yourself distant anytime they suggest something just outside your comfort zone. _

Is that what he had been doing? _Do I really push people away when they try to get close?_ He had never thought of it like that, and yet… Francis scowled at the blank page. It seemed to be mocking him. 

_ And why have I been so hostile toward James? What has he ever actually done to me that I should be so angry with him?  _ He sighed again and took another swig of his drink.  _ I've been antagonizing him and all this time, he could have been making me breakfast every morning and cookies in the afternoon…  _

Where had  _ that _ thought come from? Francis thought he might be losing his mind. He looked over his shoulder at the bedroom door again. Maybe he should just apologize. Maybe James would open the door completely naked, and pull Francis into bed, and… 

"God Damnit!" he said aloud. He picked up the glass and threw back the remainder of his drink, slammed the empty glass down on the desk, and stood up. One way or another, this useless over-thinking had to come to an end. He marched to the bedroom door and knocked. 

“One moment,” James said from behind the door. 

Francis pressed his ear to the door, hearing the shuffling of the sheets. 

“Yes?” James answered the door. He still wore Francis’ shirt, but this time it was tucked into James’ ridiculously tight skinny jeans. 

“I-” What was Francis supposed to say here, what was he to make of this sight? He’d gotten so used to seeing James in various states of undress, this caught him off guard. Those pants were a rejection if he’d ever seen one. So much for his very brief fantasy. "You're…  _ dressed _ ," he said.

“Yes. And what about it, Francis? Do you have a problem with me wearing clothes now?” James crossed his arms and leaned against the doorway. “I got cold.”

"No, no, it's fine," Francis said, wrongfooted. "Look, James, I'm sorry. I realize you’re stuck here, and I should try to be a better host, when you’ve made me more meals than I’ve made myself in the last week."

“Ah. Well, thank you for the apology, Francis.” James gently patted his shoulder. 

They both stood there in the doorway, silent. 

“Is there something you need?” James asked.

_ Yes, there is - at least something I want,  _ Francis thought. Now that James was finally wearing pants, Francis wanted to rip them off him. He wanted to do a great many other things as well, but nothing felt right anymore. 

"Will you come out to the living room at least?" he finally said. 

“Very well. Lead the way.” 

Francis eyed him skeptically, but then turned and walked into the living room. Exactly what they would do or talk about once they reached it, he had no idea. "Drink?" Francis asked.

“Please.” James slumped himself down in the armchair beside the sofa, leaving no room for Francis to sit beside him. This detail was not lost on Francis. He went and retrieved James' glass from earlier, as well as his pipe and tobacco. Returning to the living room, he poured a drink for each of them and handed one glass to James before sitting down on the sofa with his own drink and pipe. 

Francis took a drink and then set about lighting his pipe. The smell of the tobacco leaves was soothing and he took a few short puffs before inhaling deeply. 

“Are you sure you should be doing that indoors?” James asked sternly. 

"What are you, the cabin police?" Francis asked. This was a touchy subject, in that he knew he was not supposed to be smoking inside the cabin. But he had thought that just one time wouldn't harm anything. 

“It’s just that some of us like our fresh air. Especially in such a small space with no ventilation.”

Francis couldn't believe what he was hearing. "In case you've forgotten, James, this is  _ my _ cabin. You are my guest. Your cabin, with all it's thousands of square footage, and the massive tree through the roof, is right across the water. If you're so fond of your fresh air, maybe you should go back. There's a lovely bit of ventilation right through the side of the house."

“You know Francis, I wonder how this would have gone had the situation been reversed and a tree had fallen through your living room.” James downed the rest of his whiskey and reached for the bottle. 

Francis frowned at him, wondering just how much of his whiskey James was going to drink. Perhaps he should have thought twice before telling James to make himself at home. "For one thing, I wouldn't parade around your house detailing every single thing that was wrong with it. Or with you! I also wouldn't go around drinking all your liquor. Do you even have any liquor over there?" As he said this, Francis snuffed out his pipe and set it down. 

“As a matter of fact, I do not. I’m sure you’d have much to say about that. Besides, you never fail to detail everything wrong with my book at every literary event we both happen to attend.”

Francis gave a derisive snort. "Come on, James! You sold out! It was painfully obvious that the heart of the story lay in the homoerotic subtext. You tossed in a convenient female role to serve as love interest and laughed all the way to the bank! That book could have been really excellent, but you took the easy way out and appealed to the masses." 

“Have you read anything I’ve written since, Francis? I think you’ll find that I leave nothing to subtext.”

Francis' lip curled in a sneer. "Oh, I hadn't heard that there were other books," he said. "I thought you spent all your time on the insta-chat and the snap-gram things, or whatever they're called." 

“Perhaps if you actually paid any attention to my  _ Instagram _ , you’d see I released a book last December.” 

"And what about the Franklin award? No doubt you have some new and unique idea for that project?"

“It’s certainly unique, I know that for a fact.” James stared at him and then stood from the chair, starting to pace around the living room. 

“Well good. Would be a shame if you did something repetitive, like write about the Arctic again.”

“Oh, I’m still writing about the Arctic, but this will be something entirely different.”

“You don’t get to claim the genre for yourself. You’ve had your bestseller, give someone else a shot!”

“So you’re writing about the Arctic as well?”

“Damn right I am! And I’ll show you how to do it  _ right _ !”

James stopped in front of the mantle. “You know, if we were both gentlemen in one of your books, there would be a simple way of solving this dispute.” He traced the hilt of one sabre with his obscenely long fingers. 

“The problem here is that you, James Fitzjames, are no gentleman. A duel? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Well then, perhaps we should duel after all.” James reached up, and with a few tugs lifted both swords down. 

He tossed one down on the sofa, and Francis tried his best not to jump back. 

“Alright, then,” Francis replied, reaching for the hilt. He ran his thumb along the blade and decided it was sufficiently dull for this not to end in one or both of them bleeding out. He’d been a master fencer in college, he was pretty sure he remembered most of it. Mostly, he remembered kissing JC Ross, his teammate at the time, but that was another matter. 

James walked through the living room, the sword clutched firmly in his hand. Just then, Francis knew this would be an easy win. 

“But let's take it outside. I’d like to get my security deposit back.”

“In the rain? How dramatic of you, Francis.”

“It’s just a practicality. I'll save the drama for you.”

“If you say so.” James pulled on the shoes he’d left by the door and stepped out onto the porch. 

Francis was hit with a chill the moment he left the cabin. This was a terrible idea. What was he thinking? But Christ, he could not back down now. 

Francis shuddered as he walked out into the downpour. He could already feel his back screaming at him for this. 

James had raced ahead to a clearing and stood there, looking like a damn pirate in Francis’ loose shirt.

As Francis approached, James swung the sword around a few times and stepped into a perfect starting stance, his left hand folded behind his back.

Did James actually know what he was doing? Had he intentionally deceived Francis back in the cabin? If that was true, what a play, Francis had to be impressed - after he stopped worrying about his chances. 

His eyes darted between James’ unreadable expression and his sword. James just stood there waiting. Was Francis supposed to say something, or was James waiting for him to strike? 

“So is one of us going to, or are we-”

Before he could finish, James attacked. 

Francis just had enough time to slip back and dodge a cut to his thigh. 

“Christ, are you trying to kill me?”

“You said we’d duel, Francis. A duel isn’t something to be taken lightly,” James replied with a wicked grin.

Francis made a note not to underestimate him again. He lunged forward and made a series of attacks, James parrying all of them. 

“That's all you got?” James asks. 

“Damn you, James!” Rage coursed through him. He could not let James win this. 

James made a swing for him again, this time too wide. Francis stepped aside, and before James could recover his guard, landed a hit to his left shoulder. 

“In a real fight, you’d be losing blood quickly now,” Francis said, smugly.

“Is that so? I think I’ll be alright. A small cut, I’ve still got my sword, I can keep going.”

James made a cut for Francis’ head and kept on striking, forcing Francis to retreat a few steps back towards the cabin. Out of breath, Francis wondered:  _ how the hell does he have the energy for this? _

Francis’ back hit a tree, he was out of room. He made an outside cut, aiming for James’ chest. 

James blocked the attack, and lunged, sending Francis’ arm out of line. He grabbed his wrist, sending it downward and rendering his blade useless. James brought his own blade to Francis’ chest and pinned him to the tree. 

“I think I’ve won this round, don’t you think, Francis?” James leaned in, his thigh between Francis’ legs.

Francis' heart was pounding out of his chest, his breath ragged from the physical exertion, as well as the excitement of the moment. James was so close, rain collecting in his hair, dripping off the ends of his curls, streaking down his face, and all Francis could think about was how badly he wanted to lean forward and kiss that smug grin right off James' face. 

James reached down, took Francis’ sword, and backed away, towards the cabin. 

Francis nearly fell forward. His whole body was tingling in anticipation for the kiss that was surely coming, and then… nothing. 

"Now wait just a damn minute!" he shouted, chasing after James. He caught up to him quickly; perhaps James had wanted him to. Who could say? He reached out and grabbed him by the shoulder, spinning him back around and shoving him up against a tree. 

James dropped both swords. “Oh, are you ready for round two so quickly?” he said, grinning. 

"Dammit, James," Francis said, overcome with exasperation and pure, unadulterated lust. He lunged forward, kissing James hard on the mouth, their bodies pressed tightly together against the trunk of the tree. 

James wrapped his arms around Francis, pulling at his shirt. He broke away to catch his breath. “If I had known this was how you’d react, I’d have challenged you to a duel much sooner,” he whispered into Francis’ ear. 

A shiver, which had nothing to do with the cold night rain, ran down Francis' body. "Inside…" he groaned. His fist balled in the soaked fabric of James' shirt and pulled him away from the tree. "Now…"

“Oh, making demands are we, Francis? Very well, only because it’s fucking freezing out here.” James slipped past him and ran toward the porch. He opened the door and pulled off his shirt as he stepped inside.

Francis was right behind, carried along on momentum and adrenaline. He was so enthralled with the sight of James peeling his soaked clothes off that he didn't even think about the puddles of water they were leaving across the living room floor. James turned towards the bedroom, casting a glance back at him that made Francis' heart leap into his throat. James unzipped his jeans, dropping them, along with his boxers, in the middle of the living room and walked calmly into the bedroom.

In a frantic rush, Francis kicked off his shoes and pulled off his shirt, tossing it carelessly on the floor beside the door. Moving haphazardly in the direction of the bedroom, he continued discarding articles of clothing until he finally reached the bedroom door, naked as the day he was born, his entire body thrumming with anticipation. 

James lay on the bed, his head cupped casually in one palm, propped up on an elbow, one leg bent with his wrist draped languidly over his kneecap. He was on full display, and perfectly in his element.

"What took you so long, Francis?" he teased. 

Francis could only stare at him, sprawled so casually on his bed and looking incredibly smug, but oh-so-beautiful. He licked his lips and smiled as he walked slowly into the room, instinctively pulling the door closed behind him.

He climbed onto the bed, and gave James a playful shove, pushing him onto his back. Francis wasted no time in crawling over James, straddling him, and from his position astride the other man, he gazed down at him hungrily. Who would have thought that  _ this man _ \- the very man he'd been avoiding for years, and lusting after for days, now in his bed and looking up at him with unveiled need. 

He ran his hands up James' chest and leaned in to kiss him, along his jawline, down his neck, across his collar bone, pausing to dip the tip of his tongue in the hollow beneath his neck. He gripped James’ thigh, overwhelmed, trying to take him all in at once, being able to finally get his hands on James. Finally.

“So glad you’ve come to your senses, Francis,” James said breathily. He gripped Francis’ shoulder tightly, tipping his head back to give Francis total access to his neck.

“This is a sure thing James, you can stop being a tease now," Francis said, biting James' neck.

James let out a moan, which was somehow more arousing than any words he could have said. 

“I’ll never stop Francis. You’ll have to deal with me being a tease forever.”

“Shut up, James.” Although, Francis wouldn’t exactly mind. 

“Make me.”

"Gladly," Francis said, and kissed him hard on the lips, whining needfully into his mouth. His hands searched out James' hands and pinned them to the pillow on either side of his head while his hips bore down, grinding against James. Two could play at the teasing game, he realized. This was his opportunity to return the favor. He bit down on James' lower lip and gave it a tug, the tip of his tongue running along the length of it before letting go. 

"I've a good mind to tie you to the bed and leave you there for an hour or two," he growled, his lips at James' throat again. "See how you like a little teasing." 

James groaned in response. "Francis...Never knew you had it in you." 

"You'd be surprised what I'm capable of, James," he returned, his lips moving lazily down James' chest, pausing to kiss and lick at each nipple before returning to his lips. Fortunately, the bottle of lubricant was still sitting on the nightstand where he'd left it the previous day. He grabbed it and spread a fair amount over his fingers before reaching down between them, feeling his way. 

"Fuck...Francis," James groaned as Francis' fingers found and circled his opening. 

"That's exactly what I intend to do," Francis quipped, lowering himself to nip and suck at James' neck as he pressed a finger inside, pausing for a beat before beginning to carefully open him up. He wanted very badly to stretch the process out until James was nearly unraveling under his touch. He wanted to make James beg for his release, but his own need was too great, and his throbbing cock would not allow such a delay. 

Apparently, his current pace was enough of a tease because James began to squirm beneath him. "It's enough, Francis! Dammit, it's good enough. I need you inside me!" 

Francis didn't need to be asked twice. He slicked his own prick with the lube and plunged inside with a breathy cry. 

"Fuck…James…" 

James grinned. "I've been told that's the idea," he teased. The man truly never did stop with the sass, Francis thought.

As soon as he had gathered his wits enough to take command of his own body, Francis began to move his hips, making slow, shallow thrusts at first, but quickly escalating. He leaned down, capturing James' lips in a desperate kiss as he found a rhythm, moaning into James' mouth as his hips thrust faster and harder until he felt ready to explode. Suddenly remembering himself, he reached down and gripped James' erection, pumping him in time with the movements of his own hips. 

"I won't last, James," he panted. "I'm nearly there." 

James replied with another moan, and Francis felt his cock swelling, even more rock solid than he'd thought possible. James was close, too, and the realization was all he needed to push him over the edge. He cried out, hips stuttering and body quivering as he met his climax. He tried to maintain something like a rhythm in stroking James' length, but the motions came in fits and starts, as he spasmed in ecstasy. It must have been enough, though, because moments later, he felt the warmth of James' seed spilling over his fingers and his body arching up off the bed.

By the time the two of them were coming off the high of orgasm, Francis felt like he was about to expire. He couldn't remember the last time his heart had pounded so hard and fast, and he felt both utterly spent and completely sated. With a breath, he pulled out and rolled onto his side beside James. 

"Well… that was… Fuck. We could have been doing  _ that _ all this time? What were we thinking?"  He laughed. 

"Speak for yourself, Francis," James said, equally breathless. "This is exactly what  _ I _ have been thinking all along." 

Francis stared at him. "Why didn't you say something?"

James gave a little shrug. "I thought it was obvious. I was trying really hard."

Francis had to laugh, shaking his head. "We should get up and get cleaned up," Francis said half-heartedly.

"Mhm…" James agreed.

"But...maybe...just a minute longer…"

"Mhm…"


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more ~explicit content~ ahead!

Francis awoke, curled up in bed with a very naked, very asleep James Fitzjames half draped over top of him. His first instinct was panic, as he tried to piece together what had happened. He remembered the rain and the swords, and then… 

It came back to him in flashes, and he felt his cheeks burn with the memory. God, it had been _good_. But then he returned to panic mode. What did this mean? 

_Nothing! It means nothing!_ He told himself. _Just a casual fuck to let off steam. That's all. Nothing more. Nothing at all more than that._

Suddenly, he needed to be out of that bed. He gingerly slid James' limp arm off his chest, pausing to make sure he didn't wake up, but James continued his deep breathing, not quite a snore. Once he had wriggled free, Francis rolled off the side of the bed and quietly snuck out of the room. 

He followed the trail of discarded clothing, picking it up, piece by piece, wallowing in the humiliating evidence of his actions. It had been the whiskey, surely. Yes. He'd been drinking. He grabbed the throw off the back of the couch and draped it around his shoulders like a shawl, then carefully hung the wet clothes off the backs of the kitchen chairs to let them dry. 

Francis picked up his phone from the kitchen table. He’d left it there again, far too carelessly, where James could find it and start going through it at any time.

A text message popped up on his screen from Thomas Blanky.

_04:23 T Blanky: so U fucked him yet?_

Francis sighed. Thomas would never let him live this down. 

04:24 “Well good morning to you too, Tom.”

His phone buzzed. 

_04:25 T Blanky: “That’s not an answer.”_

_04:25 T Blanky: “Good middle of the bloody night 2 U, F.”_

_04:25 T Blanky: “Y R U up?”_

Francis ignored the message. He didn’t need this; what he needed now was information. He opened up the Safari app on his phone and typed in “James Fitzjames Author.”

The first few pages were all social media sites and blogging platforms Francis had never even heard of. There was a New York Times article. _Of course there is,_ Francis thought. 

He didn’t feel like reading, so he clicked on the Instagram profile. The page closed and opened up in a different app. 

James’ profile read: 

_James Fitzjames. Writer, wistful wanderer, and hopeless romantic._

_Yes, I wrote *that* Arctic book._

_“Not all those who wander are lost” - JRRT_

It was followed by at least a dozen emojis. Francis rolled his eyes. He scrolled on. 

The latest photo was James sitting in a bright orange kayak with the godawful lakehouse in the background. “ _Nothing like a trip around the lake first thing in the morning!_ ”

Francis knew how that story ended. 

Another text popped up on the screen:

_04:41 T Blanky: “Francis"_

He ignored it. 

_4:42 T Blanky: “Francis?"_

There were a few more recent photos from the trip. James in his green sunglasses, several selfies on mountain tops and one of him licking a popsicle way too suggestively. Francis hovered over that last one for longer than he would like to admit. 

Another photo was a cliche shot of the Brooklyn Bridge with the caption: “ _Goodbye NYC! I’m off to the Adirondack mountains for a couple of weeks to take a much needed escape from the hustle and bustle of the city and social media_.”

Yet, James couldn’t even stay disconnected after he’d dropped his first phone in the lake. 

Francis scrolled further down until he noticed a photo from an event in January. _He_ was in it. Francis stood beside James looking rather grim, a sharp contrast to James in his purple tux and his wide grin. Francis barely remembered that event, as he’d gone straight for the bar before even greeting anyone. 

He looked down at the caption. 

_“Tonight I had the privilege of once again running into an author I greatly admire, [Doctor] Francis Crozier. It’s a shame he doesn’t have an Instagram so I could tag him, but that’s part of his charm. Doesn’t he look handsome here?”_

Francis stared at the photo. Did James really mean it? Drunken words and speculation on Francis’ part were one thing, but seeing the proof was another. 

Francis continued to scroll through several more photos, each with a different filter and from varying odd (he supposed, artistic) angles. He paused momentarily on a string of photos that featured James in a huge floppy hat and scandalously tight shorts, lounging on a beach. The caption read: 

_"Soaking up the sun in Rio! #SummerVacay #BeachLife"_

In the next photo, James was with another man, their faces side by side, cheeks pressed together and smiling. The caption was maddeningly vague on this one:

" _Chillin' with Dundy"_

_Who the hell is Dundy?_ Francis wondered. He knew it shouldn't bother him, but for some reason, it did. Annoyed, Francis scrolled quickly through the rest of the shots in Brazil. 

_4:50 T Blanky: "Francis answer me dammit!"_

Francis sighed. 

Another picture caught his eye, and he blinked to make sure he was seeing it correctly. The photo was of James, smiling like the cat who got the cream. In his hands rested a hardback book: " _The Old Captain and the Sea"_. The caption read:

_"Guess who got his hands on the early release of 'The Old Captain and the Sea'! Yep, this guy!"_

It was Francis' last published book. He felt a little lightheaded and confused. None of this seemed right. Wrong footed, Francis closed the app. 

_04:53 T Blanky: “UR fucking him right now aren’t ya”_

_04:53 T Blanky: "O I can hear it now. Jeames! O, Jeames! Harder, jeames!"_

Francis growled in irritation and opened his messages. 

04:55 "Christ Almighty, would you please give it a rest, Thomas? I am not in process of fucking anyone."

The telltale chasing dots appeared, and Francis waited for the reply. It took longer than it should have, as Thomas Blanky was incredibly slow at text messaging. 

_04:59 T Blanky: "U haven't denied that U DID fuck him, tho!!"_

Francis sighed and rolled his eyes. 

05:00 "I am not having this conversation with you."

_05:03 T Blanky: "U old dog! U DID! I knew it! L-O-L"_

Francis considered texting back that one did not need to hyphenate internet acronyms, but decided against it. He was fairly sure they'd had this discussion before, anyway, and it never made any difference. 

Francis swiped back to Instagram, but the app had reset, losing his place in James' feed. He read the profile again, and noticed a link to a personal twitter account that he hadn't noticed before. Curious, he touched the underlined username, and the twitter app opened. 

_These newfangled contraptions and their fancy apps,_ he thought. He waited a moment for the screen to load, and was greeted by a small photo that he guessed must be James, though he could barely recognize him from the blurred image. The profile bio read nearly word for word to his Instagram profile, complete with its string of nonsensical emojis. Francis shook his head and scrolled down through the first few tweets, until a photo caught his eye. Pausing over the image, he read the caption: 

" _Just met my lakehouse neighbour, think he’s in for a surprise!"_

In the photo, his hair was once again wet and he had a hand over his mouth in that “whoops!” fashion. It showed his bare shoulder and on the floor behind him lay a discarded bath towel.

The tweet had over a thousand likes and dozens of comments all more or less with the sentiment of: _“your neighbor is so lucky!_ ” or “ _god I wish that were me._ ”

Francis kept scrolling. Whatever ideas or _feelings_ James Fitzjames had, he sure had a strange way of exhibiting them. Was it all a joke? It felt like one. 

Could Francis really trust James Fitzjames? The man was an expert at putting on a show, how could Francis know if he was ever being genuine? 

Very well. If James was going to toy with him, Francis needed some ammunition, too. 

05:31 “Thomas, I need to ask you a favour”

05:31 _T Blanky: “Need a best man already?”_

05:31 “Shut up”

05:32 “I need information”

05:32 “Last I recall you had… sources”

05:32 _T Blanky: “Yes. What U need?”_

05:33 “See if you can dig up any information on Mr. Fitzjames”

05:33 _T Blanky: “What kind of info?”_

05:33 _T Blanky: “Like if he’s single?”_

Francis sighed. Part of him did want to know. Was James seeing that Dundy character? Were they still together? What was this?

Francis shook his head. 

05:35 “No, something I can use as leverage if it comes to it”

05:35 “Just see what you can dig up”

Francis clicked the home button and stared at his default screensaver.

The phone buzzed. 

05:37 _T Blanky: “Oh no Francis”_

05:37 _T Blanky: “U’ve got it bad”_

05:37 _T Blanky: “Ive seen U like this”_

05:37 _T Blanky: “R U sure blackmail is the way U want to do this??”_

 _Thomas doesn’t know shit,_ Francis thought. For Christ’s sake he wasn’t here, how could he?

05:38: “Dammit Tom just get the info!”

05:39 _T Blanky: “Right right. OK. Night Francis”_

Francis slammed the phone down on the counter. He didn’t like this. Maybe he should let it be, why was he so hyperfocused on James anyway? 

Francis yawned. It was far too late to be making any decisions anyway. He reached for the kitchen counter whiskey and poured himself a couple ounces. 

He knocked it back and walked into the bedroom. 

Without him, James had once again spread across the entire bed. Somehow even a queen sized bed seemed too small for him. Francis lifted a long arm and managed to climb under the covers. 

The bed was warm, pleasant to return to. Not horribly cold and lonely like it usually was. 

James stirred. Francis froze, fearing he’d woken him. 

James threw his arm over Francis and rested his head on Francis’ chest and murmured something under his breath. 

Francis sighed. How was he going to get to sleep like this? He closed his eyes. After a moment he had to admit, he didn’t _hate_ this. 

He wrapped his free arm over James and let his fingers find their way into his hair. Before long, he had drifted back to sleep. 

*****

The following morning, Francis woke to sunlight pouring in through the bedroom window. His hazy mind barely registered that the rain must have stopped sometime in the night. He rubbed his eyes and stretched, then rolled over, reaching out an arm and finding - not a sleeping James, but an empty bed. 

Francis lifted his head and glanced around, but he was alone. The sheet felt cool, and Francis felt much more disappointed by this fact than he thought was appropriate. Somehow, he had just assumed that James would be the type who would enjoy lying in bed and cuddling in the morning, but apparently this had been an incorrect assumption. 

With a little groan, Francis hoisted himself out of bed. He slipped into his bathrobe and cinched the tie around his waist, then wandered out to the living room to try and find James.

Francis heard voices coming from the kitchen, in casual conversation, laughing and joking. _Who is he talking to?_ Francis wondered. He walked quietly to the kitchen and froze in the doorway. The scene playing out before him induced equal parts horror and lust?? James Fitzjames was standing at the counter, mixing something in a bowl with his back to Francis. He was wearing one of Francis' button down shirts, and nothing else. AGAIN. 

"I know!" James was saying. "And he's so adorable when he's sleeping! Did he snore as a child?" 

"Oh, yes, always," came the voice of Francis' sister, Rachel. "I used to tease him all the time about it." 

James looked up and grinned. "Well, speak of the devil. Here he is now! What an honor that you would join us, Francis!" He winked. 

Francis felt his cheeks darken. "You're… talking to my sister, James? About me!" 

"Oh, yes, we've been having a wonderful chat, Francis," James said. 

"Francis, why didn't you tell me you were entertaining a guest?" Rachel asked, raising her voice as if she needed to shout for him to hear. "No wonder you haven't been able to get any work done! Nor any sleep, either."

"Rachel!" Francis blurted out, mortified. 

"Oh, don't be embarrassed, Francis," Rachel said, poking out her lip in a pout. "We've just been getting to know each other a little bit. Don't worry. I didn't tell him about the time you--"

"RACHEL!" 

"Fine, fine... " Rachel laughed, clearly enjoying Francis' discomfort. 

James raised an eyebrow and looked at Francis. "The time you…"

"Never mind, James!" Francis said. Then to Rachel, "Thank you for checking in on me, but how about if I call you back later. Would that be alright?"

"Sure, sure," Rachel said. "I'll be taking the kids to the park later this afternoon, but I'll have my phone."

"Perfect. That's perfect. Alright, then, talk later, Rach." Francis had walked up beside James, who was trying hard not to laugh. "I'll talk to you then."

"Goodbye, Francis! Love you, baby brother."

"Goodbye, Rachel." He jabbed at the phone and the screen went black. 

Francis turned to James. "What do you think you were doing talking to my sister on the phone?" he asked. 

“You left your phone on the counter. It rang. What was I supposed to do, Francis? Let it ring?”

"There's this amazing thing called voicemail. Perhaps you've heard of it?" Francis rolled his eyes. 

“Well, I was planning on just taking a message, but then we got talking...”

"Obviously." Francis looked down at what James had been mixing on the counter and suddenly remembered what James was wearing, or rather, what he was _not_ wearing. He instantly felt himself go rigid, and all thought of the conversation with Rachel was momentarily forgotten. 

Francis shifted so that he stood behind James, peering over with his chin resting on James' shoulder and his arms around James' waist. "What are you making?" he asked, though it hardly mattered at that moment.

“Decided to go with French Toast this morning,” James replied. He leaned back against Francis. “So, how did you sleep?”

Francis realized with a jolt of surprise that he _had_ actually _slept_. "Better than I have in months," he said truthfully. "What about you?"

“Good, I slept quite well myself. Now, you best tell me how you like your toast now, otherwise I’m adding cinnamon and vanilla.”

"That sounds fine," Francis said absently. "But I'm afraid I couldn't possibly think of eating just yet." Francis slipped one hand under the shirt James wore, smoothing his palm over his stomach and chest. He pressed himself against James from behind, allowing him to feel the evidence of his arousal, and gave him a playful bite on the shoulder. 

“ _Oh._ ” James dropped the whisk. “Well, breakfast can certainly wait then.”

"Do you know what I thought yesterday, when I came out here and saw you dressed like this?" Francis asked in a low voice, his lips brushing the lobe of James' ear. 

“No, do tell, Francis.” James grinned. 

"I thought that I would like nothing so much as to bend you over this very tabletop and fuck you into tomorrow." He tipped his hips forward to illustrate, as his hand inched slowly down James' stomach. "And I think I just may follow through with that thought, right now…"

James set the bowl on the other side of the table and swiped the rest of the utensils and supplies aside, knocking over a jar of spices with the force of his movement. “Well, I see nothing here to stop you from doing so now, Francis.”

Under normal circumstances, Francis would have been outraged by the mess James had just made, but at that moment he was much too turned on to give a damn about it. He swore under his breath. "The lube is still in the bedroom," he growled. 

“Look at the counter behind you, Francis.”

Francis turned around and saw a bottle - whether it was the same bottle or another one exactly like it, he couldn't say - sitting there on the counter, right next to his bottle of whiskey. _How poetic,_ he thought to himself. He grabbed the bottle and flipped the cap. 

"You had this all planned, didn't you?" Francis gave James a light shove, pushing him forward over the table. He ran the butt of his palm up James' spine, pushing the fabric of the shirt up and admiring his bare backside. He poured an ample amount of the lubricant over his fingers in preparation.

“Of course I did, Francis. Who do you take me for? Some...”

Before James could finish this thought, Francis had plunged a finger inside him. "No stories now, James," he said softly, grinning as he hooked the finger forward slightly, aiming to massage James' prostate. James let his head fall forward and let out a luxurious moan that sent goosebumps rising on Francis' skin. He relished the sounds that came from James as he worked him open, each groan making him ache more to be inside him. Finally, he slipped his fingers free and gripped his length, positioning himself at James' opening, teasing him with little nudges of his pre-cum slicked tip. 

"Is this what you wanted, James?" he breathed, leaning over James. With a thrust of his hips, he slid inside, gasping at the sudden flood of sensation.

James gasped and gripped the table, body rigid. "Fuck, yes, Francis. Took you long enough to figure it out!" 

Francis breathed a chuckle. "Better late than never, eh, James?"

James moaned in response, and Francis began to move his hips, slowly at first, finding his stride. Oh, but damn, James felt so good. He gripped the edge of the table with one hand and wrapped the other arm around James, reaching for his erection. His fingers found James' very solid cock and curled around it, beginning to stroke slowly, in time with the thrusting of his own hips. 

"Ah...James...Fuck!" Francis groaned. He'd barely gotten started and he could already feel his climax approaching. He was half annoyed with himself for not having greater control, but how _could_ he, when James was being such a constant tease? The past couple of days, Francis had basically walked around perpetually at half mast. He gritted his teeth, pounding James hard and fast now, his whole body aching with the need for release. His hand closed more tightly around James' prick, pumping him hard as well. He felt James move beneath him, matching Francis' rhythm with his own movements, leaning back onto his length with every thrust with maddeningly perfect timing.

"I'm not going to last…" Francis panted, leaning forward against James. His hips stuttered and bucked as he reached a fever pitch, and finally came undone, crying our James' name loudly. Once he'd come back to his senses, he did his best to continue thrusting for as long as he could manage, while he focused on bringing James to climax. He loosened his grip ever so slightly and pumped him with long, confident strokes, his fingertips flicking over the tip from time to time.

"God...Francis…" James moaned. Francis felt James' body tense, his breath coming ragged and hard, staggered with little needy whimpers that grew more and more frenzied, nearly bringing Francis to a full erection all over again. He felt the moment James let go, his whole body going stiff, and then wet, sticky warmth flowed over his fingers. 

Once they were finished, Francis pulled out and nearly collapsed on the kitchen floor. His instinct was to pick James up - to gather him into his arms and hold and kiss him. But was that … acceptable? This arrangement between them was purely physical. Perhaps he would be sending the wrong signal if he were to show that type of tenderness. 

"That was… Wow," he said. "I kind of wish I'd done that yesterday, after all." He laughed, feeling suddenly - oddly - shy. 

James pushed himself off the counter and turned around to face Francis. “As do I,” he said, his voice hoarse from all the moans. He reached his arms around Francis’ shoulders and leaned in to kiss him. 

Francis felt something like relief wash over him at the gesture. Gladly, he slipped his own arms around James' waist and pulled him close, returning the kiss. It felt so nice to have this contact. It felt almost more intimate than what they'd just done. Still, Francis was uncertain. He hadn't come here to fall in love. 

Panic flooded his stomach. Of course he hadn't come here to fall in love, and why in the hell was he even thinking about that word? He did not pull away from James, but when the kiss broke, he forced himself not to encourage further tenderness. 

"Why don't you go and have a shower, James?" he said softly. "I'll have a crack at making us breakfast today."

“Oh- are you sure?” James looked at him, disappointed. “Very well. You have utterly ruined me, Francis. Your shirt, too.”

Francis looked down at the shirt. James was right, but he couldn't bring himself to care about the shirt. He looked back up to meet James' gaze and felt that tug at his heart. Would it really hurt to take James back to bed and curl up together, as he had wanted to do upon waking that morning? 

"I'm sure," he said, lifting a hand to brush James' hair from his face. "Go on. Let me do this for you." He gestured at the ingredients. "How hard could it be?" 

“Very well.” James let go of Francis and stared at the bowl. He slipped away and walked towards the bathroom, glancing back at Francis and the frying pan. 

Francis waited until he was in the bathroom before turning to survey the damage. Fortunately, it appeared that James had already mixed most of the wet ingredients before Francis had arrived in the kitchen. _Now what did he say he was going to add? Cinnamon and… Salt?_ No, salt didn't seem right. Sugar? He glanced around, saw the cinnamon, And a few other spices scattered around it. Everything had gotten mixed up in the frenzy of the moment. Francis grabbed a bottle.

"Cayenne pepper" it read. He unscrewed the cap and sniffed it. It didn't smell like much. Francis shrugged, deciding to add just a little bit to the mix. He poured some into the egg mixture along with the cinnamon and whisked it all together. 

Francis dropped the bread into the mixture and went to pour some oil on the frying pan. After soaking the bread completely he placed it in the frying pan and waited. 

He turned back to the items scattered across the counter, righting jars and putting utensils away. _What a way to start the day_ , he thought. 

Francis turned back and stared out the window. The rain was gone, and yet he didn’t want James to leave, not yet. In fact, the door between them now felt like too much. 

He regretted agreeing to cook now. He wasn’t even hungry, he hardly ate in the morning anyway. Francis could have joined James in the shower, and then dragged him back to bed, where they could cuddle until a more reasonable hour. 

Francis could turn off the pan now, set it aside and march into that bathroom. He could climb into the shower and kiss James some more. Kiss him and hold him close and not just stand here and…

Something was burning. 

Francis looked down. Quickly he turned over the toast, finding it black on the other side. 

“Fuck!” he cursed. 

_This is a bad sign,_ he thought, _that’ll teach me to daydream._

“Is everything alright out here?” James asked. 

Francis turned to see him walk into the kitchen wrapped in a towel, another in a knot on top of his head. 

“I’m afraid I burnt your toast.”

James leaned in to look at the pan. “Ah. Well, just a little bit. It happens, Francis, we can just cut around it.” He looked up and smiled. 

Francis looked doubtfully at the charred remains in the frying pan. It was more than a little burnt, but he was grateful for James' polite response. "I'll get the plates," he said, and quickly moved to open the window, since the kitchen was draped in a haze of smoke. He pulled out two plates and grabbed the bottle of maple syrup. 

"James…" he said, looking down at the pan again. "You don't _have_ to eat that, you know…"

“It just needs a little maple syrup, and it’ll be fine,” James insisted. 

Francis nodded and placed one slice of the blackened French toast on each of their plates. He handed one to James and they sat down at the table. Francis spread a pat of butter over his own, then drenched it in maple syrup. He handed the bottle over to James and watched with concern as he prepared his own dish.

James cut up the toast and brought a piece up to his mouth. “Well, Francis… This is an interesting… choice.” He continued to chew. “Did you add cayenne pepper to these? It does compliment the cinnamon, where did you get this idea?”

Francis' mouth went dry. So, the cayenne had not been the correct choice after all. "I… um… don't quite recall." He glanced down at his plate and realized he had absolutely no desire to eat. "I have an idea, James. Why don't we go back to bed, and start this day over again later? Minus the burnt toast."

“Sounds like a splendid idea. Was a pretty good start to the day, don’t you think? Minus the burnt toast.” 

"Oh, yes!" Francis said, more eagerly than he had intended to. "But in the future, I will leave the breakfast cooking to you." He smiled in self-deprecation. "I would like to take a very quick shower though, if you don't mind. You're so nice and clean. I'd hate to make you snuggle up to this." He gestured to his own body. 

James sighed. “Alright. I should deal with these dishes anyway.” He stood and collected their plates. 

Francis considered arguing. He hated thinking of making anyone else deal with the burned French toast stuck to that frying pan, but he had to agree that this would at least keep James occupied while he stumbled over his own feet to get into the shower as quickly as possible. 

Without thinking about what he was doing, Francis walked up to James at the sink and kissed him on the cheek. "Meet me in the bedroom in ten minutes?" 

“Of course. There’s nowhere I’d rather be.”

Francis hurried to the bathroom, throwing off his robe as he crossed the threshold. He was just about to hurl himself into the shower when his eyes caught on the vanity. There were at least seven different bottles, vials, tubes, and other containers scattered over the surface. He recognized most of them from James' bag. He laughed, shaking his head, and stepped into the shower, where he found still more bottles of products that James had apparently brought with him. He turned on the water and let it cascade over him. Curious, he opened one of the bottles and sniffed it. He had to force himself not to moan out loud as the scent surrounded him. It must have been James' body wash, because it smelled just like him. Francis was tempted to rub it all over his own body, but he knew James would recognize it and know, so he put the cap back on and grabbed his own trusty bar of Irish Spring soap and began to wash. 

Five minutes later, Francis emerged from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist to match the one James had been wearing. He hoped that James hadn't gotten dressed while he'd been in the shower. He hadn't been in there long, so hopefully he'd had just enough time to handle the dishes and then hop into bed. Francis opened the door and peeked inside. 

James was lying in bed, perfectly casual and, from what Francis could see above the covers, completely naked. Francis cleared his throat and entered the room, making a point of dropping the towel as he walked over to the bed. 

"I was hoping I might run into you here," he said, grinning as he crawled onto the bed and under the covers. He sidled up next to James, slipping an arm around his chest and rubbing his cheek against James' smooth skin. "If the number of toiletry items in my bathroom is any indicator, I'd say you were planning to settle in here for a while," he said. 

“Well, I planned a three week trip, why not bring some small luxuries from home? But I suppose I’ll be here until you finally grow sick of me.”

Francis made a dismissive sound and gave James a playful shove. "Bit hard to get sick of you when you're bent over my kitchen table. I don't think I'd ever get sick of that sight." He felt himself blush, realizing the magnitude of what he'd just said. He allowed his hand to roam over James' chest, mapping out the planes of his body and feeling the smoothness of his skin. He noticed a scar on the side of James' chest and his fingers lingered there for a moment. 

"How did you get this scar?" he asked softly.

“Francis, I’m sure I’ve told you this story at least twice.”

"Humor me, James. I was most likely drunk off my ass at the time." 

“Very well. It was about four years ago now. I was in Tanzania with my usual climbing party, we set out to climb Mount Kilimanjaro. It was a bit of a publicity stunt, you see my book was about mountain climbers and I found my research wasn’t cutting it, and the publishing company had this brilliant idea ...”

Francis propped himself on an elbow and listened, finding for the first time since he'd met James Fitzjames, that he was actually interested in hearing one of his stories.

“I thought, what better way to write this book than experience it for myself? Well my experience ended up far more authentic than I had hoped. I was eager, racing ahead of my party, excited once I could see the snow covered summit rising up above us. All it took was one misstep, one moment where I failed to think… and I found myself falling, rolling down the mountainside until a tree broke my fall, a branch piercing my arm and chest.

“And as I lay there, I looked up at that white peak and thought, I’d never reach it. I lay there contemplating my own mortality until my party finally caught up to me. It was only minutes, but it felt like hours.”

"That's horrible, James! Did they have to airlift you to a hospital?" Francis asked. "You must have been in so much pain."

“They patched me up on the spot as best they could, and then they airlifted me out. Dundy actually took photos of the whole ordeal.”

Francis remembered the silver haired man from James' Instagram photos. _Dundy_. What kind of a name was that, anyway? "Oh? And is Dundy… one of your rock climbing friends?" Francis asked, trying to sound casual. 

“Yes, one of my oldest friends. I was quite annoyed, one of those pictures was quite unflattering, blood everywhere, my hair a mess. It ended up in a couple news stories. But I was off on a press tour for the book a month later, perhaps sooner than my doctors would have liked, and the other photo was soon forgotten.”

"Well thank goodness for that," Francis said, rolling his eyes. "But seriously, James. It's a miracle you didn't puncture a lung or worse." He paused. "I'm glad you didn't." 

“Yes, so am I. Not the most pleasant of my adventures, that one.”

Francis yawned and stretched, then nestled close to James. "I'm sure I'll hear about the others another time," he said. "But right now, would it be too much trouble to ask you to postpone the next story and kiss me?"

“Of course, Francis.” James smiled and leaned in to kiss him. 


	6. Chapter 6

Francis didn't remember falling asleep in James' arms, but he woke up an hour later to find James lying beside him, smiling. 

"Must've fallen asleep… m'sorry," Francis said, rubbing his eyes. He slipped an arm around James' chest and snuggled into him.  _ Ah, yes, this is what I wanted _ , he thought. "Now we can restart this morning properly," he murmured.

“Well, we could always try making French toast again,” James said, stroking a hand through Francis’ hair. He glanced towards the window. “I see the rain has stopped. We’re all alone in the wilderness, I’m sure there’s plenty we could get up to outside.”

"So it has," Francis said. Then, as his sleepy mind processed the rest of James' words, his eyes widened. "James, what exactly are you suggesting?" 

“Oh I don’t know Francis, we could wander about and find a nice tree… or we could always get one of the canoes...”

"James…" 

“What, Francis?” James gave him a smug grin. “I’m just trying to be creative.”

"Are you insinuating that I am not creative?" Francis gave him a mock pout. 

“Of course you are, in a more broad sense. I’ve read your books, after all. But perhaps this isn’t your genre...”

"Is that so?" Francis pushed himself up on one elbow. "Well, allow me to illustrate some of my finest work." Laughing, he rolled on top of James, pinning him to the bed. "I don't need a tree or a canoe to get creative James." 

“Well, I can see that now, Francis.” James smiled up at him. “This certainly has merit, but, may I suggest...” James wrapped a leg around him and flipped Francis over on the bed so he was straddling him. 

*****

Francis woke early the next morning to birds screeching outside. James was asleep, pressed up beside him. He felt so content and peaceful that even the obnoxious birds did nothing to dampen his spirits. However, his back ached from all the time he'd spent in bed over the past 24 hours… not to mention the activities he'd undertaken while in that bed. 

How many times had they done it? He tried to count, but his sleep-addled mind refused. On top of the pain in his back, Francis became aware of a nagging pressure on his bladder that told him he had no choice but to get up and use the bathroom.

Once he was finished in the bathroom, Francis decided to make a quick detour through the kitchen to grab a drink of water before returning to the warm comfort of his bed and James' arms. His phone still lay face down on the counter. He flipped it over and turned on the screen and saw that he had twelve missed notifications. 

Francis sighed and scrolled through them. He ignored the emails and went to the missed calls and texts from Thomas Blanky 

_02:46_ _T Blanky: “Francis U up?”_

_ 03:10 T Blanky: “Come on F!” _

_ 03:14 T Blanky: “Don’t tell me James has fixed ur sleeping habits!” _

_ 03:48 T Blanky: “Shit, didn’t know all it took was a good fuck” _

_ 03:49 T Blanky: “Woulda set U up with some1 years ago” _

_ 03:51 T Blanky: “Francis!!!” _

_ 04:21 T Blanky: “Right whatever, UR clearly busy!” _

_ 04:22 T Blanky: “U always forget about me when UR in love!” _

_ 04:37 T Blanky: “I have that info for U if U still want it. Call me.” _

Right, the information Francis had completely forgotten about.

Francis read through the messages, surprised at just how well Thomas Blanky knew him and his habits. So, Thomas had dug up some information for him. Francis almost didn't want to know what it was. 

__ 5:13 "I'm up, I'm up. What do you have for me?"

The phone buzzed. 

_ 05:14 T Blanky: “Look who finally decided to rejoin us!” _

_ 05:14 T Blanky: “There’s quite a lot, Francis.” _

__ 05:15 "Alright, keep your shirt on. I'll call."

Francis tapped the icon to put through a voice call. The phone barely rang one time before Thomas picked up. 

“So, how’s your morning Francis?”

"Cut the shit, Thomas. What did you find?" Francis made the executive decision to bypass the water and, instead, poured himself a small glass of whiskey before he sat down at the table. 

“Christ, Francis, ok! Well, I can’t say I found anything too extreme, not for this industry. But oh, your boy, James has had some luck.”

"Luck? What do you mean, luck?" 

“Firstly, I’ve got no idea how he was accepted to Cambridge with his grades. Not much information there, I’m afraid.” Francis heard Thomas flipping through pages. “Few years later, your James had an affair with his professor, likely to get the school’s publication award.”

Francis was momentarily speechless. Of course, he'd known that James had always been sexually desirable. The comments on his instagram posts were all the proof he needed that James Fitzjames was a man in demand. But a professor… 

"What's the story there, Thomas? Did he seduce the professor? Did the professor pressure him into it? And, by the way, he isn't  _ my _ James!" 

“Whatever, Francis. At any rate… apparently, the professor gave a ‘glowing recommendation’ to Parry at Admiralty Publishing, we know what that means, eh, don’t we Francis?

"Fuck you, Thomas," Francis returned, somewhat dismissively, though some deep part of him cringed at the teasing. "Alright, what else?" he urged.

“It only gets more interesting from there. Now I may have this wrong, but a source tells me James saved Barrow’s son, heir to the then Ross and Barrow publishing empire, from a ‘Snapchat scandal,’ whatever that means. Suspiciously, after that, our James landed himself a book deal.”

"Ok… That doesn't sound so bad," Francis said, hoping Thomas couldn't tell that he had no earthly idea what Snapchat was, let alone how it could involve a scandal of any kind.

“It doesn’t end there. Apparently John Ross and Barrow hated James' book so much that they hired another writer to clean up his manuscript - some nobody named Daniel Simms. Source tells me they called it  _ unpublishable _ . Imagine that, his international bestseller, all that fame and glory! All made readable by someone else!”

Once again, Francis was struck dumb. Was this true? Was it possible that James' original work was so bad that they'd needed a ghostwriter to come in and basically rewrite the entire thing? And if so, what did that mean for James' career? "That's… shocking," he said, sensing the need to respond.

“Oh and there’s some very scandalous photographs of him on balconies and beaches all over the world, but those aren’t hard to find. There’s also a few affairs with celebrities, if you’re interested.”

"No!" Francis interjected. Then, gathering his composure, said, "No, thank-you, Thomas. I think I've heard quite enough. I appreciate your work in digging up this information for me. You've certainly given me a lot to think about."

"Any time, Francis," Thomas said. "Now I'll let you go and get back to fucking the bastard. Have fun!"

"Thomas, as I've already stated once, fuck you," Francis said, but he couldn't help laughing a little. Thomas Blanky was one of his oldest friends, and he knew there was no malice behind his words. "I'll talk to you later, yeah? Good night, Thomas."

"Not night here, but sweet dreams to you, Frank. If you ever  _ get  _ to sleep."

Francis hit the "end" button and tossed his phone across the table. He leaned forward, dragging his fingers through his hair and cradling his face in his palms. This information had been more than he'd bargained for, and he had no idea what to think or feel about any of it. The affair with a professor was… not ideal, but James had been young and probably was taken in by the professor. The later events, however… 

And then there were James' many very public affairs of recent years. Did the man ever truly care for any of his lovers? Francis realized, with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, that he cared… too much. Once again, the thought occurred to him:  _ I didn't come out here to fall in love. _ And again, he sickened at the thought. 

This was not love. It  _ couldn't _ be. It was lust - a blowing off of steam - that was all. Physical passion. Mutual attraction and an arrangement that would gratify them both for the time being, with no strings attached. That was how he'd looked at it. Yet now, faced with the knowledge that this was almost certainly how James was viewing the arrangement, Francis wondered whether it was really what he wanted after all. 

Sleep. Francis needed sleep more than anything else. With a sigh, he pushed himself away from the table and headed back to the bedroom where James lay, sleeping peacefully. The moonlight filtering in through the sheer curtains lit up James' hair and skin with a soft, cool glow, making him look like some ethereal being. 

Whatever was to happen, Francis could decide in the morning. For now, he could allow himself just one more night of this - whatever it was. Slowly, so as not to wake James, Francis slid into bed, under the covers. He carefully lifted James' arm and slipped beneath it, cuddling up to his warm chest, and closed his eyes. His last thoughts before drifting off to sleep were:

_ Would it be so very wrong to wish for this every night? Would it be wrong to love this man? _

*****

Francis awoke the following morning to find James still beside him in bed. He had rolled over in his sleep, his long body curling around Francis like a cocoon. He felt warm and content, at least until he remembered his conversation with Thomas the night before. But James was still asleep, and Francis didn't have the heart to wriggle out of his grasp. 

A sound broke his train of thought, and he looked around for the source of the noise. James, too, stirred, groaning as he rubbed his eyes. Finally Francis realized the sound was coming from James' phone on the nightstand. 

"James, your phone," he urged, giving him a little nudge.

“Why,” James whined, and reached for the phone. 

“Hello?” he rolled over. “Oh, no that won’t be- Right, if you’re on your way. I guess I’ll see you in half an hour.”

James tossed the phone aside and sighed. “Cornelius is on his way over. Apparently now he’s arranged for  _ alternate lodgings. _ ” 

Francis scowled, propping himself up on one elbow. "What, now? Without talking to you about it first? Did you know he was going to do that?" Several emotions fought for dominance in Francis' chest - surprise, irritation, relief, regret, sorrow. Then another, more practical thought: "Is he coming  _ here _ ? In half an hour?"

“Had no clue.” James sank back into the pillows. “Haven’t heard from him since I got locked out. Guess he figured out where I was?” 

"So it would seem." Francis tried not to think too much about what it would mean that this Hickey person knew where James was staying. 

"Well I guess we'd better get up and get dressed, then," Francis said with a sadness he hadn't expected. It seemed to him, in that moment, that this might be the last time he would be close to James, and that realization felt like a lead weight pressing on his chest. He sat up and got out of bed, heading for the bathroom.

As he splashed cold water on his face, it occurred to Francis that he could ask James not to go. He  _ could _ ask him to stay there, in the cabin with him. But then he remembered all the things Thomas had told him the night before, and the confusion that filled his muddled mind, and the aching in the deepest part of his heart. 

No, asking James to stay would not be wise for either of them. After all, as he had reminded himself more than once, Francis had not come here to fall in love. With a heavy sigh, he stared into the mirror at his reflection. How was it that just the day before, he'd felt like a man half his age, and now he felt double it? 

Quickly, Francis freshened himself with a washcloth, combed his hair, and threw on some relatively clean clothes, then ventured out to see what James was doing. 

James sat dressed on top of the freshly made bed, scrolling through his phone. He looked up at Francis. “Oh, Francis, I quite like what you’ve done with your hair this morning.”

Francis' gaze lingered on him for a moment, his lip curling in a slight sneer at what he thought could only have been sarcasm. He sat down on the edge of the bed and said nothing, staring at the wall. He could feel James' eyes burning a hole in his back, and he wilted, thinking of the way it had felt to have his warmth and solid weight against his own skin. He was half tempted to turn around and pull him back down onto the bed, but a deeper part of him would not allow it. The all too familiar voice inside his mind taunted him ruthlessly.

_ You're a real piece of work, aren't you, Francis? Think you're so smart, but your brain can't stop you from letting your feelings get the best of you. Look at you. Pathetic. He doesn't care about you... _

"Francis, I can't help noticing that you seem to be a bit--"

Francis turned to look over his shoulder at James, but before either one of them could say another word, there was a loud rap at the door. He got up and left the room to get the door. 

Cornelius stood at the door, with a smug grin on that ridiculous face of him. “Ah, well, hello there Mr. Frank, I’m here to pick up your lodger,” he said. 

“That’s Doctor Crozier, if you don’t mind. Show the man some respect, please,” James said, appearing behind Francis with his bag. 

Francis turned suddenly to face James. He felt a swell of emotion balloon in his chest at James' words, followed by a deep sorrow.  _ Why does this happen to me? I… No. I need to distance myself. I can't afford to let my heart get broken again. _ But the sinking feeling remained. 

“Right. Whatever. Are you ready?” Cornelius looked at James. 

“Think I’ve got everything,” James replied. He looked back at Francis. “I- I uh. Thank you, Francis.” 

Francis didn't want to look at him. He didn't want to risk looking into those eyes and falling apart. Instead, he glared at Cornelius as he spoke to James. "It was no trouble, James. I'll… see you around."

“Yes. See you around...” James slipped past him out onto the porch towards Cornelius’ van. 

Francis felt a moment of sheer panic as he watched James walk away. Before he could stop himself, he stepped out the door and shouted after him, "James!" 

James turned around, his expression hopeful, but Francis had no idea what he wanted to say. They locked eyes, and Francis felt his heart climb into his throat. "Travel well," he said, and before he could risk tearing up, he turned and went back inside the cabin, shutting the door behind him.


	7. Chapter 7

Francis spent the day moping. There was no other word to accurately describe his state of mind or his activities, such as they were. He realized early on that he would get nowhere with writing that day. Every time he sat down at his typewriter, all he could see was the image of James indelibly printed on the blank white page. 

After about an hour of this, he decided to take a proper shower and dress in fresh clothes. He stalked off to the bathroom and began running the water. The first thing he noticed upon stepping into the steaming shower was the small bottle on the ledge. James must have left it there, though whether it had been intentional or not was anyone's guess. Francis unscrewed the cap and held the bottle to his nose. It smelled like James. 

"Fuck." That was exactly what Francis did  _ not _ need at that moment. He put the cap back on and tossed it out of the shower and onto the vanity by the sink, as if putting it far enough out of his physical reach would ease the pain of finding it. 

Once he'd finished in the bathroom and gotten dressed, Francis went back to the living room and sat down on the couch. The whiskey bottle seemed to wink at him from the coffee table, glinting in the sunlight. 

"Well, here you are, my friend," he said to the bottle. He picked it up and poured some into the glass that was still sitting on the table, then took a long swallow of the amber liquid. He leaned back in the cushions and suddenly became aware of something scratching the back of his calf. He reached down to investigate what might be poking his leg, and his fingers met with a stack of papers. 

"Oh…" He pulled out the pages and looked at them. It was James' manuscript. He sighed and riffled through the pages. It seemed that there was something to remind him of James everywhere he looked. He was about to toss the pages onto the coffee table when he noticed something he hadn't seen the other night. In the top right corner, there was a date typed: May 19th 2009.

_ But that can't be right…  _ he thought. Suddenly, realization hit him like a freight train. This was the original manuscript for James' first bestselling novel, not his current project. Francis refilled his glass and began reading it again.

Several hours, later, Francis had eaten only four slices of plain white toast and had several glasses of whiskey. He hadn't wanted to put the manuscript down long enough for much else, and had basically no appetite anyway.

The pages were filled with notes made in various bright colours of pen, and most way too harsh. This story was completely different from the one published. Here, the plot was more streamlined, focused on the relationship between two characters with a more subtle horror plot. 

The sun had long set by the time Francis reached the final part. He crumpled the pages as he raced through the last chapter. 

Francis let the pages fall into his lap as he sat staring at the empty spot on the wall where the swords once hung.

This version of the story was based heavily in history, no unnecessary subplots or poorly constructed female love interests, just a story of how two rivals slowly grew into lovers. 

Part of Francis wanted to call Barrow and demand an explanation for what he deemed “publishable,” and another part of him deeply regretted never reading any of James’ other books. 

He reached for his whiskey and finished the glass. The more he drank, the more difficult it became for him to deny the reality of his own feelings. Reading James' manuscript had been like having a private viewing into the man's very soul, and in that process, he saw a depth of character and contemplative nature that he hadn't realized James possessed. 

Not only had Francis been wrong about James' abilities as a writer, but about his ability to think deeply and feel even more deeply. He'd been wrong about everything, it seemed. Francis grabbed the bottle of whiskey and took a swig without bothering about a glass. The only thing he could think of to dull the ache in his gut was to get as drunk as he possibly could.

Francis stood, his back aching. He took the bottle and walked towards the bedroom. 

He set it on the nightstand and flicked on the lamp. The bottle of lube stared back at him.

Francis groaned. He let himself fall down on the bed, face first into the pillow. The bed was cold, and smelled like he was once again burying his face in James’ hair. 

He rolled over and sighed, reaching for his phone. Three new text messages and a missed call from Rachel awaited him. 

_ 02:43 T Blanky: “Hey U up?” _

_ 02:45 T Blanky: “FRANCIS!!??” _

_ 02:47 T Blanky: “Should I B worried UR not awake at this hour” _

Francis was in no mood for this. 

__ 03:12 “I’m awake”

Francis flipped back to his contacts, figuring he should at least text Rachel. He scrolled down the contacts, past the “NOs” and Parry. His phone stopped short of Rachel, his thumb hovering over a new contact he swore wasn’t there before. 

“PLEASE TEXT (James)”

He stared at it, wondering if it was really there. He'd never experienced hallucinations with intoxication, but he'd heard such things were possible.

_ 03:17 T Blanky: “UR awake!”  _

_ 03:17 T Blanky: “Oh shit what happen Francis” _

Francis ignored the incoming messages. Still, the contact didn’t disappear. He clicked on it, opening a blank text message and began typing 

__ 03:20 “James Fitzjames”

__ 03: 21 “What have you done to my phone James Fitzjames”

Or more accurately...

__ “What have you done with my life James Fitzjames”

__ "What have you done to my fucking HEART, James Fitzjames?"

__ "You think I don't see what you did?"

__ "You think I don't feel things?"

__ "I FEEL THINGS JAMES!"

__ "I have feelings. And you "

__ "Dammit hit send too soon."

__ "Now I forgot what OH. I have feelings, you bastard!"

__ "And you had to come up here and parade around like some kind of klkjjjf"

__ "Forgot the word. YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN!"

__ "You did this to me. James Fitz-fucking-James!"

__ "I'm so tired. But I can't sleep. And do you know what would help me sleep?"

__ "A good FUCK! But I can't do that because you left! You left me here! ALONE"

__ "Fucking fuck fuck fuckkkkkkkk Yes I say FUCK. You don't have a monopoly on swearing James!"

__ "Ohh… forget it. Shoulna sent that text."

__ "But there's jsut one thing! One MORE thing! That I want to say."

__ "Oh but before I get to that, you left your bloody soap in my bathroom."

__ "Did you do that on purpose, james? To make me smell you?"

__ "You are evil."

__ "EVIL"

__ "Anyway what I wanted to say was"

__ "I was wrong about you."

__ "I used to hate you. No. that's not right."

__ "I thohgt I hated you. But the trhut is"

Francis was beginning to find it more and more difficult to focus on the phone's tiny keyboard. The letters were so small, and refused to stay in their appropriate boxes, but he persevered, typing and deleting some messages three or four times.

__ "OK James Im goin to jusss say it. I allays wanted to fuck you."

__ "Sure I told Tomhas tht I hated you. But evn he knew I was lyng."

__ "Do you know Thmoas?"

__ "Anyway"

__ "Even then I wuold have fucked you. I mean it, Jmaes. I wuoudl have!!"

__ "And I just relized afftr you were gone how much I reealy want to be abel to fuck you whenevre I want!"

__ "I msis you."

__ "Fuck."

Francis almost dropped the phone when it began to buzz in his hands. Panic seized him even in his drunken state at the thought that it could be James calling him. 

"Hullo?"

"Francis, what the fuck I've been trying to get through to you all this time. Are you ok, man?"

It was Thomas Blanky. Francis deflated with both relief and bitter disappointment. 

"Fine," he said. "I'm fine as a fizzle. No that's not right. Aw fuck it. FINE. I'm fine, Tom." 

"Well, I guess I can tell how you've been spending your evening, Francis. Why don't you tell me what's bothering you?"

"Whaddya mean, Tom? How d'you know what I been doin?"

"Just a hunch, my friend. Don't worry about it. Tell me what's going on."

“James left this morning.”

“Right, I thought you were trying to get him to leave?”

“No, I didn’t want him to leave.”

“Ah. I see now.”

“I’ve been texting him. Wanted to tell him I was wrong”

“Francis… what exactly did you text him.”

“I left uh one… a few… let me see..” Francis flipped back to the text screen. “One, two, six, twelve, uh twenty, thirty-something messages.”

“Oh Francis. We’ve talked about this.”

“You don’t understand his contact appeared in my phone as “Please Text”, it felt like a sign.”

“Ok. Tell me, what happened with James”

"Well, he just showed up here. Out of the blue."

"Yes I know that part, Francis. Let's skip ahead to what happened today."

"Oh. Well that weasel guy called and then he just showed up here and took James away from me! And now I'm all alone, and I feel sad, Thomas! I don't like feeling sad, but I feel sad!" 

“Weasel guy? Took him away? What? Ok, I know you feel sad and alone, but maybe you should try to sleep for a change, and then get back to civilization where you can be… not alone?”

"Civilization… You mean  _ home _ ?"

“Yes, home. New York, or Dublin, or you could come by Yorkshire if you’re really bored, there’s not a quiet moment here with the kids.”

"Home. I never thought of that. Thomas, you're so smart. I think you're my smartest friend. Did I ever tell you that? Then again, you might be my  _ only _ friend. Maybe I'll go home."

“I think you need to sleep and sober up, Francis.”

"Sleep… in this bed that smells like James. I can't sleep here. Oh, alright. Maybe I can put a towel over the pillow so I can't smell it anymore." 

“There you go, a plan.”

"Yes. A good plan. Thank you, Thomas. You helped me a lot tonight. I love you so much, man."

“Right... Glad to be of help. I uh… love you too, buddy. Can you please call me in the morning when you wake up, doesn’t matter the time?”

"Oh sure, sure. I'll do that, Tommy. Good night."

Francis put the phone on the nightstand and fell back on the bed. Maybe it wasn't  _ so _ bad that the sheets still smelled of James. If he was honest, it was kind of nice. He could almost just close his eyes and imagine that James was still there with him. He wriggled underneath the covers and grabbed the other pillow, tucking it close to his chest with his arms wrapped tightly around it.

"Damn you, James Fitzjames…" he murmured into the pillow and immediately fell asleep.


	8. Chapter 8

**_James_ **

James shut the door of his Manhattan apartment behind him and threw down his shoulder bag and suitcase. They contained the soggy remains of his possessions after the cottage incident. 

He stared at the place. It felt too empty. Sure, it was full of all sorts of furniture, art on the walls, and all of James’ clothes, but he never made a point of living here. It was his place, but only when he had nowhere else to go, no big city or foreign country to visit. 

James had left Lake Placid on the first flight he could get back. In fact, he’d only spent about ten minutes in the hotel room arranged for him before he found himself in tears, thinking of Francis all the way on the other side of the lake. He couldn’t stand being that close. 

Now, he was wondering if being all alone here was any better. 

James sighed. At least here he had a full selection of tea to choose from and some fresh clothes. He set the kettle to boil and made his way into the bathroom, throwing his clothes into the hamper. 

Usually, James never waited for the water to warm up before stepping into the shower. To him, this was a waste of precious time and only added to his utility bill. Besides, where was the adventure in stepping into a shower when you knew exactly what temperature the water would be? 

Today, James turned on the tap and let it run. There was no adventure left in him today. He leaned against the vanity and stared at his reflection in the mirror as it gradually fogged over. There was a dark blotch on his shoulder and another on his neck - evidence of the passion he'd shared with Francis. He let his fingertips lightly glide over the discolored skin, wondering what had gone so wrong.

Only when the mirror had completely fogged over, did he turn and step into the shower. The water was hot - nearly scalding - but he didn't turn it down. It felt cleansing, though all he wanted to purge was the ache in his heart. He grabbed the bottle of shower gel and poured some onto his loofah. It was the same gel he'd brought in travel size to the lake house, and naturally, all he could think of was Francis' remarks about it smelling like him. He'd left that little bottle behind in the vague (and now, he felt) pitiful hope that it might cause Francis to remember him. Ironic, he thought, that using it now would have the reverse effect on him. That hadn't been his plan.

*****

James sat down at his dining room table designed for eight and turned on his phone for the first time since before the flight. 

_ 1:45pm Dundas LeVesconte: “Hey FITZ” _

_ 2:04pm Dundas LeVesconte: “HEY” _

_ 3:12pm Dundas LeVesconte: “James the fuck are you?” _

_ 3:21pm Dundas LeVesconte: “Please tell me you dropped your other phone in the lake and this isnt another falling off the great wall of china incident” _

_ 3:23pm Dundas LeVesconte: “James pls im worried at this point you never stay offline this long” _

James sighed. 

__ 3:43pm “I’m back in NYC”

Three blinking dots appeared on the screen.

_ 3:44pm Dundas LeVesconte: “Shit. Already? What happen?” _

_ 3:44pm Dundas LeVesconte: “No tell me over dinner?” _

James considered the offer. He didn’t exactly have plans anyway, just ramen and moping alone. 

__ 3:46pm “Sure”

_ 3:46pm Dundas LeVesconte: “Great”  _

_ 3:46pm Dundas LeVesconte: “It’ll make you feel better promise” _

_ 3:47pm Dundas LeVesconte: “You can talk the whole time” _

_ 3:47pm Dundas LeVesconte: “There’s a sushi place near you I reviewed recently, it’s fantastic.”  _

__ 3:48pm “Sure”

__ 3:49pm “See you there at 5? Need to do hair.”

James stood from the table and made his way back into the bathroom and opened the cabinet with all his hair products. 

_ 3:50pm Dundas LeVesconte: “You’re being awfully quiet should i be concerned?” _

__ 3:50pm “No, I’ll tell you at dinner”

*****

“So what the hell is up, Fitz? For the exhibitionist you are, this is all so secretive. I’ve hardly heard from you since you lost your phone and that you were trying to seduce some mysterious man staying across the lake.”

They sat at the bar, a single pane of glass separating them from the fresh seafood on ice and the chefs wielding their razor sharp knives. A pleasant din filled the crowded space, punctuated on occasion by exclamations in Japanese from various staff. Normally, this atmosphere would have been exactly what put James at ease, but that night, he found himself staring into his tiny ceramic cup mournfully, and ripping his edamame shells to threads. 

James sighed. “It was a sensitive situation. Besides, I haven't exactly spent a lot of time on my phone in the last few days, If you catch my drift.” James couldn’t resist a smile. 

“Classic James Fitzjames, always ready to make some poor man fall in love with you, nature and the elements be damned”

“Well, not exactly, it turns out...” James looked away, staring down at his bento box.

“Oh. I uh. I’m sorry,” Dundy said, before poking at his dumplings with his chopsticks.

James nodded and reached for his sake. 

Dundy looked up at him again. “You’re in love again, aren’t you, James?”

Things were serious when Dundy called him James. James sighed, and then immediately regretted it. He supposed that was as much of an answer as any. 

“Are you going to tell me who it is this time?” Dundy asked. “At least a name perhaps?”

“Francis.”

“Francis, sounds romantic.”

“Very.”

“You sure he isn’t into you as well? Come on Fitz, you’re  _ you _ , surely-”

“I’m sure. Think he only wanted a good fuck, when I’ve wanted him for years.”

“Jesus! Who the hell is this guy and why don’t I know him?” 

“It’s… It’s Francis Crozier.”

“Shit! No!” Dundy cried, making the next two tables turn their heads. 

“Yeah.”

“I’m really sorry, mate.” Dundy reached over and patted James’ arm.

“Me too.”

“Well, let’s finish up here and head over to a bar and get you right and drunk, maybe get some guy’s phone number.”

"I don't think so, Dundy," James said, jabbing at the last circle of his rainbow roll with a chopstick. "Another time."

Dundy gaped at him. "James, my man, you are scaring me." He paused, but James did not reply. "This guy's really gotten his hooks into you, hasn't he?"

James impaled the sushi on his chopstick and held it up. "This is an apt illustration of how I feel right now," he said with a weak attempt at a smile. 

Dundy shook his head. "Well, let's at least get a couple more sakes before we go. See if we can loosen you up a little bit, huh? I've never seen you this bad before." 

James waved off his concern. They'd already had a pot of sake, and he was feeling rather numb, but he supposed another pot wouldn't hurt. 

"I just don't know what happened," James said, taking a sip from his little cup. "I thought things were going so well. I mean… we fucked on nearly every surface in the place. And it was  _ good _ , you know? I was  _ sure _ he was into it. We went to bed together last night and then, when I woke up this morning… poof." He made a gesture with his hands to mime a small explosion. "I don't know what happened in the night, but it was like Francis was a completely different person. And then the rental guy came and picked me up and it was all 'here's your hat, what's your hurry' and here we are." He picked up the cup and tipped back its contents. 

Dundy studied him with a concerned expression. "James… you didn't… I mean… did you tell him about Stephen? What about your little celebrity flings? Did you name drop Matt Bomer or Lee Pace? _ " _

"What? No. That's all ancient history," James said, shaking his head. "We didn't really  _ talk _ much at all, if you catch my meaning." 

Dundy nodded thoughtfully. "Well, I don't know, James. Maybe…" He sighed. "I don't know. But try not to let it bring you down too much, eh? He's just one man. There are plenty of other fish in the sea."

James made a derisive snorting sound and held up his impaled sushi. "This fish has had his heart broken. And this fish doesn't want any other fish than that one, Dundy."

"Alright, mate. That's fine. Here, have another cup," Dundy said, pouring more sake for James. "You'll be alright, James. I promise." 

*****

On his way home from dinner, James passed by the same antique shop he walked past nearly every day. Only this time, having no desire to return to his empty flat, he lingered at the window, browsing the display. It was the usual fare, for the most part - hand crocheted lace doilies covering old wooden tables, a pair of wire framed reading glasses atop a large, leatherbound book. He had just leaned in to have a glimpse at the text on the pages, thinking he might guess what book it was, when he noticed the antique fountain pen resting along the spine. 

James blinked in disbelief. It was identical to Francis' pen - the one that had belonged to his mother. He had no idea what a pen like that might cost. Even a brand new, good quality fountain pen could be very costly, but he didn't care. He  _ needed _ that pen. 

Fifteen minutes later, he was strolling down the sidewalk with a bit more pep in his step, a dainty brown paper gift bag hooked over his arm. He'd made up his mind that he was going to go home and write. Surely his new pen would give him the needed inspiration to finish his manuscript. 

As it happened, the pen only made matters worse. Having sat at his desk for two hours, James looked down at his notepad and saw that he had not written anything pertaining to his novel, nor even to the Arctic. Instead, the pages were scrawled with poetry, along with Francis' name written in every script he knew how to do. It was hopeless.

_ He _ was hopeless. 

Feeling exhausted and utterly defeated, James dressed for bed. His phone had not made so much as a peep since he'd texted with Dundy earlier, but he opened his iMessages again anyway, pulling down on the screen to try and get them to update. Nothing changed. He sighed heavily, wondering whether Francis had even looked at his phone all day. Had he noticed the little note James had left for him? Would he even care if he had?

James realized that if he left his phone on, he would lie awake all night, hoping that it would ring. Still, not quite willing to turn off the power completely, he silenced the ringer and placed the phone screen-side down on his nightstand. He didn't want to even run the risk of being up half the night, so he shuffled into the bathroom and pulled his little bottle of Ambien out of the medicine cabinet. 

"Bottoms up," he said to his reflection, popping a little pink tablet into his mouth and chasing it down with a few swallows of water from the tap. Then he returned to his bed and climbed beneath the covers. Casting one final, longing glance at his phone, he lay his head on the pillow and closed his eyes.

*****

James woke with a start, never having even realized that he'd fallen asleep. Bright morning sunlight streamed in through his window, and a quick glance at the alarm clock told him it was ten o'clock in the morning. 

"Damnable Ambien," he murmured, dragging a hand down his face. He was so annoyed at himself for sleeping so late that he didn't even think to check his phone before stumbling into the bathroom. When he returned to the bedroom, dressed for the day, he remembered that he'd silenced his phone. With a jolt of panic, he grabbed it off the dresser and flipped the mute switch. 

The screen lit up with a banner telling him he had 34 text message notifications. 

"What the…" 

He swiped up, unlocking the screen and went immediately to his text messages, and his heart lurched into his throat. They were from Francis. All of them. Numbly, he slumped down on the edge of his bed and began scrolling through message after message.

_ Fuck, how drunk did he have to be _ , James thought, and then,  _ he misses me? _

It was only after these thoughts that James took in the actual messages themselves. He couldn't help chuckling at Francis' grand attempts at romantic profundity, and his rapidly deteriorating coherence. His eyes were drawn to one line in particular: 

_ "And I just relized afftr you were gone how much I reealy want to be abel to fuck you whenevre I want!" _

The utter ridiculousness of the whole thing made no difference in the light of what Francis had been trying to convey. James felt the faint stirrings of hope in his heart, but just as quickly, they were snuffed out again. Francis had been drunk, clearly.  _ Very _ drunk. Who knew whether he would still feel this way in the harsh light of day, or whether he would be so mortified, just knowing he'd sent those texts that he'd never want to see James again? 

James tapped the screen to reply.

He stared at it, as the cursor blinked mockingly. What was he supposed to say? Francis was probably still asleep or massively hungover, certainly not in a good mood. 

The doorbell rang. 

“Hey Fitz! Let me in!” Dundy called. 

James stood and made his way to the door. 

“Good morning- oh. What happened to you?” Dundy asked, eying him up and down.

“Ambien,” James replied. 

“I see. Well I know what’s gonna make you feel better, I have a bit of a benjo planned for us today….”

“Francis texted me.”

“What? He did? Show me!”

James handed over his phone. 

“What did you do to this poor man, James?” Dundy looked up from scrolling, shaking his head. 

James shrugged. 

“Did you really leave your soap there on purpose?”

“I might have.”

“You’re _ shameless _ .”

“I was _ desperate _ .”

“Aren’t you always?”

James gasped and snatched the phone back. 

“Hey, I was just about to reply!” Dundy pleaded.

“No! But out of curiosity, what were you going to say?”

“Something along the lines of: “ _ then get your ass to New York and fuck me, Crozier.” _ ”

“Dundas!”

“What, isn’t that what you want?”

“Yes, but… one has to be a bit more…  _ delicate _ when talking to Francis Crozier.”

“Like leaving your soap to torture him? Just text the man, James! He clearly wants you, you can say anything!”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Well, I planned a whole self-care day for us. It would be a shame to cancel now, so what do you say? Starting with brunch reservations at Victor’s Cafe.” 

“Alright. Fine. Only because I don’t have any food here.”

“Great! Now go change, you need to look like James Fitzjames, and not a writer on Ambien.”

James groaned and turned back towards his bedroom. 


End file.
